SHE    WHO    WAS 
HELENA    CASS 

LAWRENCE  RISING 


OT  CALIF.  LIBRARY*  LOS  ANGELES 


SHE    WHO    WAS 
HELENA  CASS 


BY 

LAWRENCE   RISING 


NEW  ^SJT  YORK 
GEORGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ20, 
BY  GEORGE   H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


TO 

ALICE 


2132380 


SHE    WHO    WAS 
HELENA    CASS 


SHE  WHO  WAS 
HELENA  CASS 


BOOK  I 


WHO  was  she  ?    It  was  she ! 

As  many  as  eight  or  ten  times,  Jay  Sefton  mused,  he 
had  thought  he  had  seen  her,  but  always  before  he  had  been 
mistaken.  Sometimes  she  had  been  leaving  a  restaurant  or 
an  hotel,  or  in  the  act  of  alighting  from  a  car.  Once  it  had 
been  something  in  the  carriage  of  a  woman's  shoulders ; 
another  time  it  was  the  quick,  bird-like  movement  of  the 
head;  or  again  the  impatient  step  of  a  girl  crossing  the 
street ;  it  might  be  the  way  a  woman  propelled  herself  for- 
ward against  the  crowd;  or  even  the  cast  of  features 
glimpsed  through  the  disfiguring  all-over  pattern  of  her  veil. 

Each  time  he  had  felt  the  moment  of  tense  excitement 
which  communicated  itself  to  every  nerve.  He  increased 
his  speed  or  slackened  it  as  the  case  might  be  so  that  he  con- 
tinued abreast  of  her.  But  a  second  glance  was  always 
enough  to  prove  his  mistake.  And  following  that  he  ex- 
perienced an  unreasoning  anger  directed  against  the  woman 
who  had  decoyed  his  hopes. 

The  reactions  were  so  regular,  so  inevitable  as  to  have 
become  almost  formulae,  wherein  each  sensation  could  be 
tabulated.  But  once  his  indignation  left  him  it  was  suc- 

9 


io         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

ceeded  by  a  disgust  of  self,  a  desire  to  chuck  up  everything 
and  get  away.  New  York  was  unreal.  It  was  a  city  of 
ghosts  dancing  together  after  the  music  had  ceased.  It 
was  like  a  cinema  seen  upside  down;  thousands  of  silhou- 
ettes passed,  repassed  and  finally  became  merged. 

To-day  his  feelings  bore  little  relation  to  the  abasement 
of  past  mistakes.  New  York  was  merely  a  glittering  back- 
ground against  which  his  drama  was  being  enacted. 

Seeing  an  empty  motorcab  passing,  he  had  run  into  the 
street  amid  the  rush  of  vehicles  and  leapt  upon  the  run- 
ning-board. 

"Overtake  the  yellow  car  ahead,"  he  called  to  the  chauf- 
feur, "and  I'll  double  your  fare. 

After  Mr.  Sefton  had  sprung  inside  he  remained  with 
his  hand  on  the  door,  his  quickened  breath  betraying  high 
tension.  His  eyes  followed  the  yellow  car  ahead  which 
was  nosing  its  way  through  the  congestion  of  afternoon 
traffic  as  though  it  knew  it  had  been  sighted  and  was  looking 
for  escape.  He  swore  under  his  breath  when  a  car  passed 
before  them  blocking  his  vision.  Then  he  called  out : 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  engine?  Can't  you  make 
it  go?" 

Still  the  chauffeur  gave  no  response,  but  inch  by  inch 
they  ate  up  the  intervening  space  and  he  saw  they  were 
gaining  on  the  car  ahead.  If  only  they  weren't  held  in  a 
block  he  could  overtake  the  occupant. 

At  the  thought  he  felt  an  excitement  hammering  in  his 
temples.  Was  it  to  come  true  at  last,  this  search  of  over 
three  years?  He  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  feeling  of  self- 
commiseration  ;  he  had  been  curiously  faithful ;  for  during 
three  years  he  had  not  thought  of  anyone  else,  seriously.  .  .  . 

He  had  planned  so  often  what  he  would  do  when  he 
found  her.  For  at  no  time  had  there  been  any  doubt  in 
his  mind  but  that  some  day,  somewhere,  they  would  con- 
front each  other.  And  now  that  the  moment  seemed  immi- 
nent all  his  rehearsed  effects  deserted  him.  He  would 
want  to  make  himself  instantly  known  to  her.  He  would 
call  her  by  name. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         n 

They  were  gaining  on  the  car  steadily.  This  time  he 
could  not  be  eluded. 

It  was  an  afternoon  of  early  September,  warm,  season- 
able, not  yet  giving  a  hint  of  the  delayed  autumn  which 
would  recall  the  city's  decorative  element  waiting  at  the 
shore  for  the  blistering  pavements  to  be  permanently  cooled. 
Among  the  myriads  of  hurrying  creatures  on  the  Avenue, 
intense,  humourless,  swarming  like  a  tumbled  ant  hill,  there 
appeared  no  change.  The  removal  of  that  small  commu- 
nity of  the  socially  eminent  seemed  insufficient  to  explain 
the  want  of  distinction  which  characterized  the  present 
throng.  But  already  the  sight  of  a  woman  expertly 
dressed,  colour  and  line  proclaiming  her  one  of  that  small 
group  whose  most  casual  raiment  standardize  fashions,  was 
sufficiently  rare  to  catch  the  glance  of  the  trained  ob- 
server. 

It  was  indeed  just  this  quality  which  had  held  the  atten- 
tion of  Jay  Sefton.  The  yellow  car  he  had  not  recognized 
nor  the  pseudo-livery  of  chauffeur  and  footman,  but  the 
glimpse  of  the  woman  in  the  tonneau  had  gripped  him. 
She  was  not  alone,  but  he  had  not  noticed  if  her  com- 
panion were  a  man  or  a  woman  before  deciding  pursuit. 
In  a  moment  he  realized  that  since  she  had  concealed  her- 
self with  such  amazing  success,  to  make  himself  known  to 
her  meant  only  to  lose  her  once  again. 

Instead  he  must  caution  patience.  He  would  follow 
her  unobtrusively,  persistently;  see  where  the  car  went; 
discover  where  she  was  living;  find  out  under  what  name 
she  had  made  positive  her  disguise.  Then  when  all  of  her 
pretences  had  been  penetrated  and  the  primary  facts  of 
her  life  were  known  to  him  he  would  appear  before  her; 
with  the  threat  of  exposure  she  was  not  likely  to  refuse  him. 
After  all,  why  should  she  refuse  him?  He  was  a  person- 
able young  man;  he  possessed  means  and  no  outstanding 
vices. 

He  had  reached  this  point  in  his  reasoning  when  he  saw 
that  the  traffic  ahead  had  been  suddenly  halted  above  34th 
Street.  The  yellow  car  was  at  a  standstill  while  the  cross- 


5  :-:z  VTH: 


CASS 


HELENA  CASS        13 


'  ".    " 


:  -:\~  ~'~~~    :;:  :    :t~r:    -. :  • 


i4         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

her  discovery,  made  public  in  the  afternoon,  always  proved 
by  morning  to  be  fabrication  or  hearsay.  And  each  report 
put  under  investigation  dwindled  away  to  nothing. 

People  who  had  known  her  claimed  they  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  at  Biarritz  and  Paris.  But  when  they  spoke 
to  her  she  vanished.  Detectives,  however,  discredited 
these  encounters.  Of  the  hordes  of  young  women  who 
maintained  that  they  were  she,  each  in  turn  was  afterwards 
proven  to  be  a  notoriety-seeker  or  some  unaccountable 
vagrant  mind  the  preposterousness  of  whose  assumption 
was  usually  self-evident. 

The  capitals  of  Europe  were  all  acquainted  with  the 
same  photograph.  And  the  reward  announced  by  her  father 
for  her  discovery  had  never  been  withdrawn,  although  there 
was  no  longer  any  talk  of  that.  The  subject  was  merely 
deemed  hopeless  and  discontinued.  The  photograph 
taken  by  Mishkin  something  over  three  years  ago  had  been 
slightly  retouched ;  perhaps  she  had  not  been  quite  as  pretty 
as  the  portrait  depicted;  but  Sefton  liked  best  to  think 
of  her  so. 

Wide,  humid  eyes,  sparkling  irresistibly,  as  though  they 
had  just  conceived  a  fresh  prank,  beneath  a  broad  brow, 
the  entire  face  framed  in  masses  of  thick  black  hair.  The 
mouth  was  a  little  large,  but  the  chin  was  firm  above  the 
splendid  pillar  of  her  throat,  full  and  strong  as  ivory.  It 
was  a  face  that  arrested  attention  because  of  its  arrogant, 
youthful  confidence,  its  audacity,  its  resourcefulness.  It 
was  not  the  face  of  one  easily  daunted.  She  had  not  been 
the  girl  to  succumb  to  the  blandishments  of  any  trickster. 
Her  entire  attitude  toward  life  had  been  humourous,  de- 
fiant, unafraid.  And  yet  already  people  had  taken  to  say- 
ing: 

"I  don't  suppose  we'll  ever  know  what  became  of  her." 

What  had  become  of  her? 

If  she  were  still  alive  beyond  doubt  someone  would  have 
seen  her  before  now.  That  was  always  the  conclusion  he 
returned  to  as  it  was  always  his  starting  point. 

Why  did  Sefton  allow  her  to  disturb  his  life  ?  He  had  not 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         15 

been  engaged  to  her.  He  had  not  even  realised  he  was  in 
love  with  her  until  her  disappearance.  They  had  been 
friends — but  nothing  more.  He  had  danced  with  her.  And 
how  well  she  danced !  What  a  sense  of  fun  she  possessed ! 
Her  humour  had  been  keen,  her  irony  caustic!  Behind 
them  had  been  sheer  joy  in  living  and  high  spirits. 

The  memory  of  her  had  become  a  fetish  to  him.  She 
was  an  incubus,  not  only  the  subject  of  his  unhappiness  but 
an  obstacle  to  peace.  He  told  himself  the  result  of  his 
infatuation  was  already  incalculable.  He  had  sacrificed 
three  years  of  his  life  to  a  wraith.  She  could  no  longer 
be  considered  a  real  person.  And  yet  her  name  conjured 
up  a  personality  to  the  minds  of  millions  of  people.  One 
had  only  to  pronounce  it  to  obtain  instant  attention. 

Poor  Helena  Cass.    Why  did  it  have  to  be  she?  .  .  . 


n 

IN  passing  his  club,  Sefton  signalled  the  chauffeur  to 
stop,  sprang  out,  paid  him  and  entered.  He  did  not  sur- 
render his  hat  to  the  liveried  servant  in  the  lower  hall,  but, 
following  a  mannerism  of  the  club,  made  his  way  upstairs, 
still  wearing  it.  Many  of  the  members  were  not  yet  back 
in  town,  and  an  air  of  settled  melancholy  brooded  over  the 
empty  lounge  and  vestibule. 

Being  one  of  the  few  literary  members,  Jay  Sefton 
mounted  to  an  upper  floor,  confident  of  finding  the  library 
deserted.  In  the  half-shaded  light  of  the  large,  untenanted 
room  he  dropped  into  one  of  the  capacious  easy-chairs 
and  threw  a  leg  over  the  upholstered  arm.  This  trick 
characterized  absorbed  thought,  while  he  expelled  cylin- 
ders of  smoke  through  inflated  nostrils.  He  remained  in 
deep  pre-occupation,  occasionally  producing  a  gold  ciga- 
rette-case, the  gift  of  his  publisher,  lighting  a  fresh  ciga- 
rette from  the  stub  of  the  last,  but  otherwise  his  immo- 
bility continued  undisturbed.  The  afternoon  waned,  but 
he  did  not  rouse  himself. 

Sefton's  success  as  a  novelist  had  been  somewhat  in 
the  nature  of  a  foregone  conclusion.  His  "arrival"  the 
winter  past  had  effected  a  succession  of  rings  on  the  placid 
surface  of  the  literary  world  that  had  caused  a  distinct 
ripple  on  the  shore.  Yet  in  spite  of  it  he  now  found  him- 
self beset  with  unexpected  difficulties.  After  the  prepara- 
tory years  spent  at  Sandhurst,  the  urge  of  his  own  country 
had  proved  too  strong  and  he  had  left  England,  where 
he  had  lived  as  a  boy,  and  returned  to  America.  A  feeling 
of  sentiment  had  made  him  wish  to  claim  the  same  alma 
mater  which  had  been  successive  links  in  the  life  of  his 
father  and  several  generations  of  Seftons  before  him. 

At  college  he  had  shown  just  those  brilliant  qualities 

16 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         17 

wfiich  were  likely  to  electrify  a  class-room  and  in  a  course 
of  literary  construction  his  fellow  students  felt  they  were 
listening  to  the  work  of  a  man  who  would  become  one  of 
the  great  men  of  letters  of  his  day.  It  was  therefore  a 
distinct  disappointment  that,  following  post-graduate  work, 
when  his  first  novel  appeared  it  caused  scarcely  a  murmur. 
A  few  reviews  spoke  of  it  giving  "distinct  promise,"  but  the 
work  itself  was  self-conscious,  and  the  theme  not  one  to 
rouse  enthusiasm.  A  year  later  the  second  book  appeared 
and  while  this  was  achieved  with  a  more  mature  and  finished 
artistry  again  the  subject  was  one  in  itself  to  preclude 
popularity. 

It  was  not  until  the  appearance  of  the  third  book  that 
the  name  of  Jay  Sefton  became  universally  known.  The 
success  of  "Unexposed"  was  like  no  other  success  since 
"Trilby";  it  combined  an  extraordinary  theme,  human, 
compelling,  with  a  vigour  of  style  and  a  forceful  expression 
whereby  the  other  books  of  the  season  seemed  a  mere 
fluidity.  The  success  of  "Unexposed"  made  him  eager  to 
attack  a  fourth  book,  and  a  theme  which  had  long  inter- 
ested him  began  to  elaborate  itself  in  his  brain.  It  was 
after  "Unexposed"  had  passed  through  its  fourth  edition 
that  he  one  day  paid  a  visit  to  his  publisher  to  outline  to 
him  the  structure  of  the  new  book.  But  this  was  received 
with  almost  immediate  rebuff. 

"Don't  go  to  work  too  rapidly,  Mr.  Sefton,"  he  cautioned. 
"You  have  gained  an  immense  public.  Don't  lose  it.  This 
idea  would  disappoint  the  readers  of  'Unexposed.'  You 
have  been  given  a  responsibility  which  must  be  fulfilled. 
Your  two  earlier  books  were  almost  as  fine  pieces  of  work 
as  your  last.  The  difference  in  their  popularity  is  that 
your  last  dealt  with  a  very  human  situation  and  your  first 
two  didn't.  Write  this  book  you  have  planned,  later  on, 
just  for  your  own  pleasure.  And  in  the  meantime  be  on 
the  lookout  for  a  subject  which  will  duplicate  "Unexposed." 

And  so  for  the  past  six  months  Jay  Sefton  had  resigned 
himself  to  looking  for  a  human  view  of  life  to  satisfy 
nearly  a  million  readers,  not  knowing  that  his  search  in 


1 8         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

itself  was  likely  to  defeat  all  plans  of  its  fulfilment.  Ideas 
had  come  flocking  to  him,  one  after  another,  each  to  be 
weighed,  considered  and  then  be  discarded  as  not  interesting 
to  his  public. 

It  was  not  until  a  few  weeks  ago  that  the  story  of  Helena 
Cass  had  suggested  a  theme  ready  to  his  hand.  The  com- 
plexities which  shrouded  his  subject  only  increased  ten- 
fold his  own  interest.  He  would  write  of  a  young  man 
who  became  enamoured  with  a  young  woman  after  she 
had  been  lost  to  the  world  and  her  friends.  So  great 
would  his  affection  become  that  it  gradually  usurped  all 
other  interests,  and  he  resigned  his  business  and  began  a 
systematic  search  for  her.  Her  own  parents  and  friends 
would  come  under  the  microscope  of  his  inspection,  until  out 
of  the  most  incomprehensible  details  he  was  able  to  adduce 
data  which  finally  led  to  her  discovery,  and  the  suppressed 
reasons  which  had  brought  about  her  misadventure.  In 
the  first  flare-up  of  the  thought  Sefton  decided  that  he 
would  make  use  of  his  imagination  to  solve  the  three 
years'  quandary,  but  later  he  was  determined  to  discover 
Miss  Cass  herself,  and  use  those  facts  as  a  nucleus  for  his 
story. 

He  felt  his  face  flush  now  at  the  ugliness  of  the  idea,  as 
he  regarded  it  impartially.  What  could  be  more  tasteless 
than  making  use  of  a  celebrated  case  as  a  means  of  foster- 
ing his  own  career?  His  need  to  discover  what  had  hap- 
pened to  the  girl  was  the  response  of  a  more  personal 
group  of  imperatives  than  the  mere  urge  of  "copy."  There 
was  no  denying  the  emotion  now  that  he  surrendered  to  it. 
He  had  been  attracted  to  several  women  in  the  past,  though 
such  claims  had  not  been  lasting,  but  this  present  one  was 
not  to  be  put  aside.  He  was  in  love.  ...  He  admitted 
shamefacedly  that  it  was  his  failure  to  experience  its  in- 
dividual poignancy  before  that  had  been  found  lacking  in 
his  work.  .  .  .  That  was  what  his  reputed  literary  ''cold- 
ness" amounted  to.  ... 

Sefton  stretched  his  long  legs  and  recrossed  them  indo- 
lently. In  the  late  twenties,  tall,  of  a  splendid  length  of 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         19 

limb,  blond,  with  a  freshness  of  colour  and  a  level  blue 
gaze,  his  eyes  had  moments  of  uncommon  charm  and  of 
complete  absorption.  His  trait  of  somewhat  persistent 
aloofness  did  not  make  for  favour,  many  disputing  his  un- 
derstanding of  the  men  and  women  in  his  books  whom  he 
shunned  in  real  life.  There  was  a  nice  precision  about  his 
speech  that  never  suffered  relapse,  and  for  the  most  part 
a  certain  "niceness"  about  his  thoughts.  It  may  have  been 
because  of  this  that  his  friends  questioned  his  possessing 
what  they  termed  the  "human  touch"  when  what  they 
meant  was  the  use  of  a  grosser  word. 

Sefton  remained  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  darkening 
walls,  whilst  without  the  vague  September  dusk,  like  an 
impalpable  mist,  clustered  outside  the  club  windows.  When 
a  moment  later  an  attendant  entered  and  switched  on  the 
lights  in  the  reading-lamp  at  his  elbow,  he  scarcely  noticed 
the  change. 

His  mind  once  more  at  work  in  the  old  involute  wan- 
derings asking  himself  again: 

"How  could  she  vanish  utterly?  .  .  .  To  think  they  never 
found  her  bag,  or  any  article  of  clothing,  or  jewelry,  not 
even  her  drawing-box.  Even  thought  it  had  been  suicide — 
how  could  she  disappear  as  though  she  had  never  been  .  .  . 
and  for  three  years  .  .  ." 

He  checked  himself.  Each  conjecture  was  a  blind  alley, 
a  part  of  the  great  general  pattern  of  the  labyrinth  in  which 
he  had  lost  himself  for  months.  There  was  only  one 
way  of  freeing  himself  from  an  obsession  which  had  be- 
come as  insidious  as  the  grip  of  a  malignant  disease. 

He  caught  up  his  hat,  ran  downstairs  and  out,  signalled 
a  taxicab  from  the  club  stand,  and  a  moment  later  was 
being  driven  up  Fifth  Avenue.  He  dismissed  the  cab  at 
the  corner  of  Eightieth  Street  and  walked  briskly  to  Madi- 
son Avenue.  Here  he  crossed  the  avenue  and  allowed 
his  footsteps  to  become  more  deliberate  as  he  drew  near 
the  house. 

It  was  some  time  since  he  had  seen  it,  but  he  had  never 
forgotten  its  general  appearance.  No.  33  was  situated  on 


20         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

the  north  side  of  the  street,  midway  between  Madison  and 
Park,  an  undetached  brick  structure,  in  no  way  an  un- 
usual town  house.  It  did  not  look  new,  yet  it  could  not  be 
thirty  years  old,  since  it  had  escaped  the  brownstone  period. 
It  was  modest,  unobtrusive,  with  green  shutters  and  a 
diminutive  balcony  upheld  by  Georgian  columns  of  white 
limestone  at  the  front  door.  It  was  set  back  a  few  yards 
from  the  pavement,  protected  by  a  fence  of  iron  palings, 
behind  which  grew  a  hedge  of  well-trimmed  privet.  A 
semi-circle  of  white  marguerites,  red  geraniums  and  lobelia 
ornamented  the  balcony.  The  house  was  three-storied,  the 
windows  hung  with  half-curtains  in  both  the  upper  and 
lower  sashes.  In  the  basement  was  a  grilled  window,  and 
sunken  stairs  led  to  a  door  connected  with  the  servants' 
gate. 

Sefton  would  have  liked  to  linger  before  the  house,  since 
there  were  lights  within,  but,  aware  of  already  having  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  night-watchman  on  the  corner, 
he  moved  on.  The  man  was  evidently  in  the  employ  of 
the  Cass  household,  as  they  doubtless  had  occasion  to  have 
the  house  protected  from  unbridled  curiosity  following  the 
newspaper  investigations.  Now  that  Sefton  had  refreshed 
his  memory  of  the  house,  Miss  Cass's  disappearance 
seemed  to  him  more  incomprehensible  than  ever.  He  found 
himself  wondering  if  perhaps  she  had  not  been  lost  at  all, 
but  was  concealed  within  for  reasons  of  which  the  public 
was  uninformed. 

He  retraced  his  steps  slowly  toward  Madison  Avenue 
while  every  detail  of  No.  33  pressed  itself  indelibly 
upon  his  mind.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  a  house  in  which 
one  would  not  expect  anything  to  occur.  And  that  elusive 
quality  in  itself  of  the  expensive,  the  comfortable  and  yet 
commonplace  was  the  ideal  setting  for  the  drama. 

The  street  was  deserted,  and  realising  that  his  progress, 
halting  and  apparently  without  objective,  remained  under 
the  eye  of  the  night  watchman,  he  stepped  inside  the  portico 
of  an  apartment  building  directly  opposite.  Here  in  the 
doorway  he  was  outside  the  man's  line  of  vision,  and  it 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         21 

gave  him  an  opportunity  to  take  one  last  look  at  the  house 
of  mystery  before  returning  to  the  club. 

As  he  stood  there  self-absorbed  in  his  interest  watching 
the  lighted  windows,  shaded  and  shadowless,  he  was  sud- 
denly aware  of  someone  standing  at  his  elbow. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  you  wished  to  see  the  apartment?" 

Jay  Sefton  looked  at  the  little  man  at  his  side,  precise, 
courteous,  evidently  a  renting  agent. 

The  night  watchman  was  pacing  slowly  by  and  had  come 
to  a  full  stop  in  the  doorway. 

"Yes,"  Sefton  agreed,  aware  that  being  under  observa- 
tion had  contributed  to  his  consecutiveness.  "How  many 
rooms  has  it?" 

"Four.  It's  fully  furnished  and  a  great  bargain.  This 
way,  please." 

He  was  led  to  a  lift  encrusted  with  wedgewood  medal- 
lions and  mirror-lined  which  carried  him  to  the  fifth  floor. 
Here  the  agent  crossed  the  hall,  inserted  a  key  and  unlocked 
a  door.  Putting  an  arm  inside  the  casement,  he  felt  for  the 
switch  and  turned  up  the  lights. 

"Go  right  in.  There's  no  one  here.  This  is  a  bachelor 
apartment.  The  party  who  owns  it  has  been  called  out  of 
town  on  business  and  asked  us  to  do  what  we  could  to  sub- 
let it  furnished.  It  was  used  by  a  bachelor,  but  it's  large 
enough  for  a  married  couple." 

Sefton  entered  a  square  hall,  lighted  dimly  from  above 
by  an  old  Italian  lantern.  The  walls  were  hung  with  three 
Flemish  tapestries,  and  the  only  furniture  was  an  old  wall 
fountain,  a  console  and  two  chairs. 

"This  is  the  sitting-room." 

He  followed  the  agent  into  a  large  space,  enclosed  by 
grey,  unlittered  walls,  the  room  grouped  with  furniture  of 
heavy  old  English  tables  and  easy  chairs.  There  was  a 
rotary  bookcase  and  a  broad  writing  table  placed  before  a 
bow-window. 

Sefton  strode  across  the  room  and  held  aside  the 
curtains  to  look  out.  The  windows  commanded  a  compre- 
hensive view  of  Mr.  Cass's  house.  No  one  could  enter  or 


22         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

leave  undetected  by  anyone  watching  from  those  windows. 
±ie  turned  back  to  survey  the  room  once  more:  there  was 
a  deep  hearth  with  logs,  and  even  the  books  on  the  shelves 
showed  a  taste  which  was  not  an  affliction.  It  was  the 
sitting-room  which  attracted  him  although  he  gave  a  glance 
at  the  dining-room  and  bedroom. 

"If  the  apartment  answers  your  requirements,  and  you're 
a  single  man,  I  could  get  you  the  Japanese  servant  the  last 
party  had.  He  was  here  to  see  me  yesterday  about  a  job. 
He's  a  very  good  gentleman's  valet  and  general  servant,  sir. 
He  doesn't  sleep  in  the  apartment  but  there's  a  room  for 
him  at  the  top  of  the  house.  It's  a  bargain,  sir,  if  you  can 
use  it." 

Sefton  asked  him  the  price.  He  realised  after  it 
was  quoted  to  him  that  it  was  surprisingly  cheap.  He  had 
returned  to  the  sitting-room  and  stood  looking  out  the 
window  at  the  lights  of  Mr.  Cass's  house  across  the  street. 

Then  he  said  succinctly: 

"I'll  take  it." 


Ill 

JAY  SEFTON  supplied  his  name  and  address,  his  banker's 
and  those  of  his  publishers  and  tailor  as  guarantors  of  his 
solvency.  Three  days  later,  the  references  having  been 
investigated  and  found  adequate,  a  lease  was  sent  him  which 
he  signed,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  the  transfer  had  been 
made  and  he  removed  from  the  Club  to  East  Both  Street. 

S.  Fuis,  the  diminutive  Japanese,  returned  to  past  sur- 
roundings under  new  directorship,  proved  one  of  those  rare 
domestics,  a  capable  gentleman's  man  who  kept  Mr.  Sef- 
ton's  clothes  pressed,  his  boots  treed,  and  his  bath  ready. 
If  the  small  brown  man  was  less  successful  as  cook  he  at 
least  accomplished  the  seemingly  incredible  in  combining 
the  offices  of  three  servants  in  one. 

He  found  upon  closer  inspection  that  the  apartment,  in- 
stead of  not  living  up  to  first  impressions,  very  much  sur- 
passed them.  The  rooms  were  furnished  with  a  complete- 
ness which  left  nothing  to  be  supplemented,  and  a  second 
view  of  the  bookshelves  quickened  the  novelist's  inter- 
est in  the  previous  tenant.  But  living  face  to  face  with 
33  East  Eightieth  Street  made  continued  thought  of  any- 
one other  than  his  neighbours  negligible. 

Late  one  afternoon,  reproaching  himself  with  wasting 
time  and  doubtful  of  the  outcome  of  his  experiment, 
he  bethought  himself  of  a  spinster  cousin  of  his  whom  he 
suspected  had  returned  to  town  and  whom  he  was  conscious 
of  having  neglected.  She  was  a  middle-aged  woman,  who 
was  given  to  spending  her  winters  in  New  York,  where  she 
lived  in  Park  Avenue  in  a  diminutive  apartment,  dependent 
on  the  services  of  a  single  maid.  The  woman  enjoyed  a 
slight  income  which  allowed  her  to  live  in  a  small  way, 
with  a  few  retracted  months  in  town  followed  by  summers 
of  visiting  a  succession  of  New  England  relatives.  He  en- 

23 


24        SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

tered  the  vestibule  conscious  that  he  would  at  least  be  in 
time  for  a  cup  of  tea.  As  she  opened  the  door  to  receive 
him  and  he  crossed  the  narrow  hall  to  her  sitting-room,  he 
felt  a  moment's  annoyance  to  see  he  was  not  the  only 
visitor. 

"Come  in,  Jay.  I  want  you  to  meet  Mrs.  Slaterlee.  This 
is  my  cousin  Jay  Sefton." 

A  lady  seated  in  the  shadow  of  an  immense  samovar 
on  the  tea  table  raised  an  ungloved  hand : 

"I've  read  'Unexposed,' "  she  said  in  a  voice  that  carried 
both  strength  and  sincerity,  "and  I  want  to  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  it." 

"Mrs.  Slaterlee,"  interrupted  his  cousin,  "holds  the  chair 
of  English  Literature  at  Vassar,  so  that  her  liking  your 
book  really  means  something." 

A  few  moments  later  the  subject  of  his  book  was 
seemingly  exhausted,  but  Mrs.  Slaterlee  continued  with  its 
discussion  with  some  persistence. 

"You  have  a  Gallic  touch  which  I  admire.  The  idea  that 
life  should  be  written  about  as  it  is  never  lived  is  so  tire- 
some. Why  should  all  fiction  become  desexualized  ?" 

"You  mustn't  look  to  me  for  the  answer." 

"After  all,  the  strongest  emotion  of  which  we  are  capable 
is  self-preservation,  the  second  is  propagation,  and  the  third 
is  the  parental  love  of  offspring.  Why  should  literature 
ignore  that  set  of  feelings  which  account  for  our  being  here? 
I'm  not  old-fashioned.  I  believe  in  rather  plain  language. 
I  tell  my  students  not  to  approach  their  work  with  a  blush 
and  a  giggle.  And  not  to  make  their  observations  through 
a  veil.  I  have  one  rather  talented  student.  She's  an  im- 
mense admirer  of  yours.  Her  people  live  next  door  to 
your  club  and  she  tells  me  she's  often  seen  you  in  the  win- 
dow writing." 

Sefton  laughed. 

"Not  now,"  he  said.  "I've  moved.  I'm  living  in  East  8oth 
Street" 

"The  apartment  building  on  the  South  Side?" 

"Yes." 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         25 

"I  remember  when  the  building  was  being  constructed. 
But  I  haven't  been  in  that  street  in  three  years.  I  used  to 
have  friends  who  lived  opposite  you." 

"The  Casses?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  ever  know  Miss  Helena?" 

"She  was  one  of  my  girls  at  Vassar.  I  knew  her  par- 
ticularly well, — or  at  least  I  thought  I  did.  In  fact,  I 
chaperoned  her  with  two  others  on  that  last  trip  abroad. 
That  was  a  lamentable  affair,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Very." 

"But  it  seems  futile  to  talk  about  it  now." 

Then  glancing  at  her  watch  at  her  wrist,  she  saw  the 
time  and  rose.  After  her  leave-taking  with  her  friend  she 
turned  to  Sefton. 

"I  shall  tell  my  students  I  have  shaken  hands  with  the 
great  man.  I  am  looking  forward  to  your  next  book  al- 
ready. Don't  do  the  way  all  other  novelists  do — become 
careless  and  acquisitive,  and  turn  out  a  flood  of  disap- 
pointing work.  You've  set  a  standard  and  we  won't  be 
satisfied  with  anything  below  it." 

As  Sefton  signified  his  intention  of  leaving  with  her, 
his  cousin  protested : 

"Jay,  you're  not  going  too  ?    Why,  I've  hardly  seen  you." 

As  he  reached  the  pavement  with  Mrs.  Slaterlee  at  his 
side,  he  enquired  if  he  should  have  a  taxicab  called  since  he 
saw  there  was  no  car  waiting  for  her. 

"No.  Let  us  walk.  I  love  the  late  November  days  in 
New  York.  Are  you  going  downtown?" 

He  assented  automatically  and  they  started  South. 

"After  the  routine  of  Vassar,"  she  remarked,  "an  occa- 
sional week-end  in  town  is  in  the  nature  of  a  dissipation  to 
me.  I  come  up  quite  often  while  the  opera  is  here  for  a 
Saturday  night  performance.  I'm  particularly  fond  of 
French  opera." 

"So  am  I.  But  one  can't  hope  to  hear  it  at  the  Metro- 
politan where  Italian  influences  are  so  strong.  But  the 
next  time  there  is  something  I  wish  you'd  let  me  take  you." 


26         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

He  had  been  looking  at  Mrs.  Slaterlee  by  each  successive 
street  lamp  they  passed  and  decided  that  she  was  frankly 
middle-aged  so  that  she  would  not  resent  his  invitation. 

"And  if  you  ever  overcome  your  aversion  to  East  Both 
Street  sufficiently  to  call  on  the  Casses  I  wish  you'd  allow 
me  to  accompany  you." 

He  was  surprised  at  his  own  audacity  in  this  last  request 
but  his  companion  seemed  not  to  notice  it,  and  took  up  his 
remark  quite  literally. 

"Are  the  Casses  friends  of  yours?" 

"No.    But  we  have  mutual  friends." 

"Just  what  can  one  do  in  a  position  like  ours  ?  I  hope  her 
family  don't  feel  I've  neglected  them  because  they're  in 
trouble.  But  what  can  one  say?  One  can't  sympathise. 
One  doesn't  wish  to  pry.  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any 
code  of  behaviour  which  covers  the  case  of  a  mysterious 
disappearance.  And  so  this  awful  pall  of  silence  endures. 
I  couldn't  go  to  see  them  and  ignore  all  mention  of  Helena. 
She  was  the  only  member  of  the  family  I  knew  at  all  well, 
or  was  in  any  way  attached  to.  If  there  is  anything  I 
could  do  I  would  like  to  do  it.  But  I  can't  go  to  see  a 
mother  and  daughter  who  refuse  all  mention  of  Helena, 
who  dress  in  half  mourning  and  tacitly  agree  the  girl  is 
dead.  If  I  knew  Helena  were  dead  it  would  be  a  different 
matter.  But  I  don't,  and  I  don't  even  know  that  they  do  or 
whether  they  merely  hope  she  is.  So  I  have  remained 
away  through  sheer  embarrassment  in  an  awkward  situa- 
tion and  I  believe  most  of  their  friends  have  done  the 
same." 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  something  about  Miss  Cass." 

"What?" 

"Her  disposition,  the  type  of  girl  she  represented.  One 
hears  such  conflicting  accounts.  And  now  that  she's  dea3, 
if  she  is  dead,  there  seems  no  contradicting  them." 

"You've  asked  a  very  poor  person  for  an  account  of  her. 
You  see,  I  knew  all  of  Helena's  faults  and  shortcomings. 
I  was  alive  to  every  one  of  them.  And  those  were  points 
on  which  the  press  were  sedulously  silent.  They  wanted 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         275 

the  right  kind  of  'story'  at  all  costs.  I  was  very  fond  of 
Helena.  She  was  a  splendid  sort  of  girl  in  a  curious  way. 
Without  being  masculine  she  was  like  a  very  fine  boy. 
Generous,  large-hearted,  devoid  of  all  small  feeling,  full 
of  life  and  energy  and  a  tremendous  curiosity  to  know  the 
world.  She  was  magnetic,  not  beautiful,  and  as  a  man  she 
would  have  been  loved  by  everyone.  She  was  a  human 
dynamo.  If  she  could  only  have  played  football  and  been 
stroke  oar  on  the  Yale  crew  she  would  have  used  up  all 
her  superfluous  energy  which,  unfortunately,  went  into 
other  channels." 

"You  arouse  my  curiosity." 

"Helena  was  intensely  'modern,'  but  I  don't  use  the 
word  in  its  unpleasant  sense.  She  was  not  modern  in  a 
neurotic  way,  like  the  quantities  of  girls  who  wish  to  release 
their  souls  and  do  so  by  removing  all  clothing  but  two  yards 
of  chiffon  and  then  persist  in  dancing  in  public  out  of 
doors.  One  may  call  that  'modern,'  but  there  is  a  word 
that  describes  it  more  accurately.  Such  abysses  would 
never  have  suggested  themselves  to  Helena.  Her  desire 
was  to  live,  to  experience,  to  see  life.  If  she  had  only 
cared  for  work  she  could  have  matriculated  for  the  literary 
tripos  and  the  highest  honours.  She  possessed  brain  enough 
and  concentration,  but  she  didn't  want  to  work.  She  could 
do  rather  better  than  the  average  without  study.  She 
really  enjoyed  languages.  She  spoke  an  excellent  French 
for  an  American,  German  and  some  Spanish.  She  had  a 
pleasant  voice,  was  a  born  mimic.  She  took  part  in  our 
plays  and  was  quite  an  exceptional  amateur  actress.  But 
she  wouldn't  have  worked  hard  enough  to  go  on  the  stage. 
She  was  never  aware  of  rivalry  and  all  the  girls  liked  her." 

"This  sounds  only  like  praise." 

"Her  weak  points "  and  Mrs.  Slaterlee  smiled  rue- 
fully. "Helena  was  utterly  unmanageable.  She  was  worse 
than  the  traditional  handful.  All  her  life  she  had  never 
been  curbed.  She  was  like  a  race  horse  that  had  never  been 
taken  out  of  the  stable." 

"She  could  make  time?" 


28         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"She  ran  away  with  one.  She  never  saw  barriers.  She 
simply  leapt  them.  And  by  this  I  don't  mean  she  was  fast. 
In  spite  of  her  seeming  sophistication  she  was  a  child  at 
heart.  She  was  unafraid  and  didn't  realise  risks.  I  never 
knew  her  until  she  came  to  Vassar.  Before  that  she  had 
been  at  boarding  school  and  was  expected  to  make  her 
debut  in  society.  It  was  because  of  her  father  that  this 
plan  miscarried." 

"Were  she  and  her  father  friends?" 
"I  see  you've  heard.     That's  why  you  ask  me?" 
"No.    On  my  honour.    It's  only  from  observation.    I've 
seen  Mr.  Cass  and  I  wondered." 

"He  and  Helena  were  all  but  arch  enemies.  She  realised 
he  was  a  ridiculous,  tyrannical  man  with  a  point  of  view 
of  1860.  Mentally  she  was  more  than  a  match  for  him. 
She  did  not  respect  his  financial  meanness  and  his  mental 
posturings.  He  saw  himself  as  a  sort  of  hero  of  romance,  a 
Count  d'Orsay,  a  Barbey  D'Aurenvilly.  To  her  he  was  an 
absurd  old  poseur,  who  wore  the  clothes  of  a  young  blade. 
They  were  hostile  and  antagonistic  to  each  other,  she  be- 
cause he  attempted  a  crushing  authority,  and  he  because  he 
was  not  equal  to  Her  ridicule.  So  she  was  sent  to  Vassar  to 
have  her  away  from  home.  Her  vacations  were  mostly 
spent  with  her  friends.  I  believe  she  attempted  to  control 
Herself  when  under  the  parental  roof  but  without  much 
success.  But  during  those  periods  her  mother  was  miser- 
able and  her  younger  sister  in  tears.  I  blame  Helena  for 
being  utterly  unfilial,  and  yet  I  agree  with  her.  Mr.  Cass 
is  a  caricature." 

She  continued  to  walk  in  silence,  and  then  she  added : 
"I  have  just  been  thinking  what  a  character  she  would 
have  been.  A  sort  of  splendid  young  rebel,  but  people 
would  probably  prefer  to  read  of  more  dutiful  children.  I 
can't  begin  to  tell  you  the  tricks  she  played  at  Vassar.  She 
broke  every  rule  of  the  college,  I  think,  simply  because  rules 
annoyed  her.  Probably  if  she  had  been  allowed  perfect 
freedom  she  wouldn't  have  cared  for  it." 

Since  urging  her  on  to  this  subject  Mr.  Sefton  had  made 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        29 

scarcely  a  remark,  fearing  to  distract  her  attention.  He 
realised  he  was  listening  to  a  woman  whose  opinions  he 
could  accept  as  true.  Now  as  they  reached  her  hotel,  a 
modest  building  in  West  47th  Street,  they  hesitated  for  a 
moment  on  the  pavement,  until  noticing  an  attendant  had 
opened  the  door  for  them,  she  said : 

"Won't  you  come  in  for  a  few  minutes  ?" 

"Just  for  a  minute,"  he  agreed. 

They  crossed  the  lounge,  she  leading  to  a  small  writing 
room  which  was  deserted. 

"From  the  first  Helena  always  reminded  me  of  a  sort 
of  modern  Diana.  She  looked  like  one.  Her  photographs 
were  really  quite  unlike.  She  had  sparkling  eyes,  bright, 
eloquent,  a  trifle  too  large  for  her  face,  surrounded  by  a 
good  deal  of  white,  and  the  thickest  black  hair.  She  stood 
well,  walked  well.  And  one  felt  she  was  beautiful  be- 
cause she  was  so  sound  and  such  a  perfect  young  animal. 
Yet  she  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  to  marry  and  prolif- 
erate and  become  the  conventional  mother  with  subor- 
dinate interests.  I  remember  thinking  this  when  she 
was  a  student  and  wondering  what  would  become  of  her. 
And  I  thought  then  that  though  matrimony  would  not 
satisfy  her,  neither  would  spinsterhood,  and  that  she  could 
only  remain  the  eternal  Diana  by  dying  young." 

"Did  no  man  ever  enter  her  life?" 

"Now  you  are  thinking  of  Mr.  Buel." 

"Of  course  I  know  what  the  press  printed.  They 
strongly  suggested  that  it  was  a  case  of  'find  the  man.' " 

"Yes,  but  the  man  was  found.  Detectives  haven't  taken 
an  eye  off  of  him  since.  His  mail  has  been  opened,  his 
wire  tapped,  and  he  himself  followed,  but  there's  never 
been  a  trace  of  his  hearing  from  her  or  being  in  communi- 
cation with  her  directly." 

"Where  is  Buel  now  ?" 

"He  still  lives  in  Detroit,  I  believe.  Your  interest  in 
this  is  not  one  of  gossip,  is  it,  Mr.  Sefton?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Then  I  will  tell  you,  confidentially,  a  few  facts.     It's 


30         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

such  a  long  time  since  I've  spoken  of  Helena.  You  don't 
know  what  a  relief  it  is  to  my  conscience  that  I  was  no 
longer  responsible  for  her  when  she  was  lost.  If  I  had  been 
I  don't  know  what  I  would  have  done." 

The  fact  that  he  was  obtaining  evidence  he  had  first 
thought  to  put  to  public  use  for  the  moment  caused  him  no 
disquietude.  He  felt  an  insatiable  hunger  to  know  just  what 
had  transpired,  in  which  the  author  was  apostate  beside 
the  detective  within  him.  After  all  there  could  be  nothing 
more  engrossing  than  the  business  of  following  up  a  clue 
which  had  long  been  discarded  and  find  the  solution  him- 
self. 

"When  Helena  was  in  her  senior  year,  an  uncle  of  one 
of  the  girls  came  down  to  college  to  see  her.  He  was  not 
a  particularly  attractive  man,  forty  or  thereabouts,  large, 
a  rather  heavy,  settled  type.  A  man  who'd  had  his  youth 
though  he  might  not  have  spent  it  prodigally,  he  seemed  to 
have  forfeited  it  in  some  way.  The  man  was  somewhat 
ponderous,  not  cerebral  like  Helena,  apparently  moderate, 
easy  going.  A  sound  sleeper  who  lived  within  the  radius 
of  a  good  digestion  and  a  frequent  after-dinner  nap.  He 
was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  attract  a  high  spirited,  girl 
like  Helena." 

"This  was  Jordan  Buel?" 

"Yes.    You're  surprised?" 

"Naturally." 

"Well,  you  would  have  been  more  so  if  you  had  seen 
him.  He  seemed  pre-eminently  safe ;  as  much  so  as  though 
he  had  been  the  father  of  the  girl.  He  was  a  sort  of  father 
to  Birdie  Hyde.  She  was  an  orphan,  an  unimaginative 
little  thing,  the  usual  type  cut  out  according  to  pattern.  Mr. 
Jordan  Buel  and  a  married  brother  were  her  uncles  and  paid 
for  her  education.  As  a  matter  of  duty  he  came  to  college 
once  or  twice  a  year.  Birdie  hardly  knew  him,  wasn't  at 
her  ease  and  didn't  know  what  to  talk  about.  She  intro- 
duced Mr.  Buel  to  Helena  as  the  brightest  girl  she  knew. 
He  seems  to  have  been  the  first  man  Helena  had  ever  met. 
The  others  were  boys,  or  else  men  so  old  that  they  might 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         31 

have  been  of  her  own  sex  so  far  as  any  attraction  of  the 
male  for  the  female  is  concerned." 

"Did  you  suspect  she  was  interested?" 

"Not  really.  I  believe  he  sent  her  up  a  box  of  sweets 
from  Sherry's  after  his  return.  And  later  he  found  reason 
for  coming  back  and  always  he  devoted  himself  to  her. 
He  was  there  at  graduation  and  by  that  time  it  seems  they 
considered  themselves  engaged." 

"Engaged?" 

"This  is  a  new  version  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  I've  always  blamed  Jordan  Buel.  He  was  old  enough 
even  if  he  were  not  a  man  of  the  world ;  he  could  not  have 
been  so  ignorant  that  he  did  not  know  that  he  should  have 
come  first  to  Mr.  Cass  and  told  him  of  his  intentions  and 
asked  permission.  But  it  is  impossible  to  expect  anything 
more  than  the  code  of  savages  of  some  of  our  countrymen. 
And  perhaps  Helena  would  not  have  allowed  it.  Anyway, 
after  her  graduation  Helena  was  once  more  at  home.  Mr. 
Buel  followed  her  to  New  York,  called  on  her  and  was 
presented  to  her  family.  Mr.  Cass  wished  to  know  who  the 
man  was  and  why  he  was  coming  to  the  house.  It  never 
seems  to  have  occurred  to  him  that  one  of  his  daughters 
should  marry.  When  Helena  told  him  they  were  engaged 
that  naturally  precipitated  a  crisis.  The  man  was  debarred 
the  house  and  Helena  was  instructed  to  give  him  his 
conge.  At  first  she  refused  to  do  this  and  there  were 
scenes,  recriminations,  denunciations  and  tears.  But  the 
tears,  you  may  be  sure,  were  never  Helena's.  She  was 
not  hysterical.  Her  engagement  ring,  a  mammoth  emerald- 
cut  diamond,  disappeared.  She  was  supposed  to  have  given 
it  back  to  Mr.  Buel  but  she  didn't.  I  believe  she  always 
wore  it  when  she  had  her  gloves  on  as  a  matter  of  senti- 
ment. She  wished  to  feel  that  a  part  of  her  was  encircled 
by  something  which  was  his.  ..." 

She  paused  in  her  narrative,  looked  about  the  room  and 
then  her  glance  returned  to  Sefton's  eyes,  which  were 
watching  every  movement  of  her  lips  with  interest. 


32         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"At  this  time  I  was  taking  Vida  Newbolt  and  Carimai 
Evans  abroad,  when  Helena  and  Airs.  Cass  beseeched  me 
to  allow  Helena  to  come  with  us.  I  explained  that  our 
reservations  had  been  made;  we  had  our  tickets  and  our 
entire  itinerary  was  planned,  and  that  another  person  would 
upset  our  calculations.  Still  they  insisted.  Since  Helena's 
falling  out  with  her  father  life  at  home  was  out  of  the 
question,  as  he  had  become  futilely  abusive  and  unending 
in  his  demands,  and  she  had  become  scornful  and  ironic. 
It  was,  in  fact,  after  a  great  deal  of  pleading  on  Mrs.  Cass's 
side,  that  she  had  gained  her  husband's  consent  to  let 
Helena  leave,  and  then  under  the  arrangement  that  Mrs. 
Cass  pay  for  Helena's  trip  out  of  her  own  money.  I  weak- 
ened and  agreed,  although  I  knew  from  past  experience 
that  I  wouldn't  have  much  peace  and  I  would  never  know 
where  the  girl  was.  She  managed  to  get  a  stateroom  from 
someone  who  had  cancelled  passage  at  the  last  moment  and 
was  ready  on  twenty-four  hours'  notice.  ..." 

Again  she  stopped,  and  this  time  Sefton  noticed 
that  her  eyes  sought  her  watch  and  he  was  aware  of  having 
remained  longer  than  had  been  expected.  He  wondered 
if  he  was  detaining  Mrs.  Slaterlee  from  dressing  for  din- 
ner or  if  she  had  some  engagement  for  the  evening.  But 
he  made  no  movement  of  leave-taking  and  she  continued 
her  story. 

It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  that  he  rose.  Mrs. 
Slaterlee  had  now  told  him  what  she  had  never  uttered 
before,  either  to  Mrs.  Cass  or  Helena's  friends,  to  the  press 
or  the  detective  who  had  interrogated  her  upon  her  re- 
turn from  Europe.  Sefton  realised  that  he  possessed  facts 
that  had  never  been  made  public  and  which  no  one  who  had 
searched  systematically  for  the  girl  had  ever  been  ac- 
quainted with.  When  he  left  the  hotel  it  was  with  a  feeling 
of  triumph.  With  the  information  about  Miss  Cass  given 
him  that  evening,  he  knew  it  was  well  within  his  power  to 
find  her. 


BOOK  II 


IV 

Miss  CASS  was  the  last  person  to  come  aboard  after  sail- 
ing time.  The  gangplank  was  held  while  she  kissed  her 
mother  and  sister,  and  then  ran  up  a  second  before  the 
ropes  were  cast  off. 

Mrs.  Slaterlee  felt  a  moment's  contrition  when  she  re- 
called the  objections  she  had  raised  to  Helena's  joining 
them,  as  Miss  Cass  made  her  way  to  the  little  party  standing 
beside  the  crowded  rail.  She  was  conscious  that  although 
the  girl  was  not  really  pretty  she  was  already  a  centre  of 
interest. 

She  greeted  Mrs.  Slaterlee  and  her  two  charges  with 
unfeigned  delight,  which  made  Mrs.  Slaterlee  feel  that  after 
all  she  had  been  very  unfair  to  this  young  lady.  They  re- 
mained for  several  minutes  at  the  rail,  waving  perfunctory 
farewells,  although  they  were  no  longer  able  to  distinguish 
anyone  left  on  the  dock. 

"I  thought  we  had  lost  you,"  Mrs.  Slaterlee  remarked. 

"I'm  always  late,"  Helena  confessed,  voicing  a  chronic 
weakness,  "but  I've  never  missed  a  train  or  a  boat  in  my 
life." 

There  was  something  engaging  in  the  candour  with  which 
she  named  her  frailties. 

"Let  me  carry  your  bag,  if  you'll  trust  me  with  it." 

A  moment  later  they  had  gone  below  to  the  writing-room 
where  Mrs.  Slaterlee  and  her  two  girls  hastily  secured  the 
three  last  writing  tables  to  indite  farewell  notes. 

"It  will  only  take  me  a  few  moments,"  Mrs.  Slaterlee 
explained,  "and  then  you  may  have  my  table." 

33 


34         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"Don't  hurry.  I  have  no  one  to  write  to.  I  said  good- 
bye to  mother  and  Annis  only  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  I 
won't  repeat  it." 

She  had  settled  herself  in  an  easy  chair  where  a  revolv- 
ing electric  fan  played  upon  her,  which  caught  loosened 
tendrils  of  her  hair  and  kept  them  astir  about  her  face  like  a 
darkened  nimbus.  Mrs.  Slaterlee,  watching  her  from  time 
to  time  above  a  recalcitrant  pen,  felt  she  had  never  seen  the 
girl  looking  more  provocative  and  utterly  charming.  She 
felt  Miss  Cass  was  in  far  too  reasonable  a  humour  to  be 
quite  safe,  and  yet  the  expression  of  her  face  was  one  of 
mobile  contentment. 

Later  that  evening  she  tapped  on  Mrs.  Slaterlee's  door 
and  entered  her  stateroom,  to  ask  if  she  could  administer 
to  her  comfort,  since  the  four  ladies  were  travelling  with- 
out the  assistance  of  a  maid.  Miss  Cass  was  already 
dressed  for  dinner,  and,  like  many  women  who  are  not 
beautiful,  her  bared  throat  and  arms  brought  unsuspected 
perfections  into  view,  and  by  some  curious  chemistry 
turned  her  shortcomings  into  added  charms.  Mrs.  Slater- 
lee  had  never  possessed  a  personal  maid,  and  was  rather 
in  doubt  as  to  her  duties.  However,  it  was  safer  to  keep 
Helena  under  her  eye,  so  she  handed  her  the  bodice  of 
her  dinner  dress  with  instructions  to  take  a  stitch  in  a  frill 
of  lace  in  the  neck  and  sleeves. 

Following  dinner  there  was  still  little  motion  on  board 
as  the  ship  plowed  through  the  illimitable  expanse,  not  un- 
like dark  meadows,  which  broke  into  constant  blossom 
suggesting  hedgerows  of  white  thorn  and  fields  of  scat- 
tered daisies.  A  cooler  wind  now  met  them,  and  the  four 
travellers  spent  a"  hour  solemnly  stretched  out  in  a  row 
under  wraps  on  the  deck  chairs.  By  quarter  to  ten  they 
were  all  glad  to  end  an  interminable  evening  by  retiring. 

Miss  Cass  had  her  breakfast  served  in  her  stateroom 
next  morning  and  did  not  rise  until  late.  When  Mrs. 
Slaterlee  went  in  search  of  her  at  mid-day,  she  found  that 
Helena  had  quit  her  room  nor  did  an  exhaustive  investiga- 
tion reveal  any  trace  of  her.  She  was  not  on  deck,  in  the 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         35 

salons,  writing-rooms  nor  in  the  Ritz  restaurant.  It  was 
some  time  before  she  was  found  sitting  on  the  stairs  to 
the  bridge  talking  earnestly  to  a  large,  broad-shouldered 
man  in  white  flannels. 

Mrs.  Slaterlee,  coming  upon  them  suddenly,  felt  there 
was  something  familiar  in  the  expanse  of  shoulder  and 
thick,  dark  hair  of  the  man  watching  Helena,  his  face 
completely  in  shadow  from  his  cap  drawn  down  over  his 
eyes.  It  was  not  until  Mrs.  Slaterlee  called  Helena  that 
he  rose,  and  as  he  faced  her  she  saw  that  the  girl's  com- 
panion was  Mr.  Jordan  Buel. 

He  pulled  off  his  cap,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
man  was  plainly  forty,  or  thereabouts,  he  betrayed  a  cer- 
tain boyishness,  as  though  he  had  been  discovered  breaking 
some  rule  for  which  he  was  about  to  be  reproved. 

Helena  attempted  no  explanations;  she  merely  laughed. 
It  was  a  tantalising  trick  of  hers. 

"Mrs.  Slaterlee,  you  remember  Mr.  Buel,"  she  said,  as 
though  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  meeting. 

"I  remember  him  perfectly." 

"I  thought  you  would." 

"I've  just  been  looking  for  you.  Will  you  come  to  my 
stateroom  for  a  minute?" 

"Do  you  think  you  have  acted  quite  honourably?"  she 
asked  when  they  were  out  of  earshot. 

"Honourably?" 

She  repeated  the  word  as  though  nonplussed. 

"You  are  not  going  to  tell  me  you  didn't  know  Mr.  Buel 
was  sailing  by  the  same  ship." 

"I  didn't." 

Helena  spoke  earnestly.  Then  her  face  broke  once  more 
into  smiles. 

"You  promise  me  you  didn't  know?" 

There  was  satisfaction  in  the  realisation  that  under  m> 
conditions  would  Helena  resort  to  subterfuge  or  a  lie.  Be- 
side Miss  Evans  and  Miss  Newbolt  her  faults  were  legion, 
but  whereas  Mrs.  Slaterlee  knew  they  were  not  above  mis- 


36         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

representation,  at  least  Helena  was  brutally  truthful  at  all 
times. 

"No.  I  didn't  know  really.  I  told  him  I  was  going  with 
you,  and  I  knew  he  would  try  to  book  passage  if  it  were 
possible.  But  he  didn't  let  me  know  and  I  wasn't  positive 
until  this  morning." 

"Do  you  think  you're  pleasing  your  family  in  this?" 

"If  you  mean  father,  then  I  must  tell  you  I  haven't  the 
power  of  pleasing  him.  I  can  never  remember  having  done 
so." 

"I  am  supposedly  taking  you  abroad  to  get  you  beyond 
the  influence  of  this  man." 

"I  can't  get  beyond  his  influence.    I  love  him," 

"You  do?" 

"Of  course.    I  wouldn't  look  at  him  if  I  didn't." 

"But  it  isn't  as  though  you  were  engaged." 

"We  are!" 

She  lifted  her  left  hand,  and  Mrs.  Slaterlee  saw  that  the 
great  navette-shaped  diamond  was  on  her  third  finger;  it 
was  the  only  jewel  she  wore. 

"You  don't  seem  to  realise  my  position.  I  am  respon- 
sible for  you  until  your  safe  return.  If  I  had  known  Mr. 
Buel  was  on  board  I  would  have  refused  to  let  you  accom- 
pany us.  I  think  you  knew  I  didn't  want  you,  anyway." 

"Don't  be  horrid." 

"Why  wasn't  Mr.  Buel's  name  on  the  sailing  list?  He's 
not  travelling  under  another  name,  is  he?" 

"Of  course  not.    He  .took  passage  too  late  to  be  down." 

"Where  was  he  last  night  at  dinner?" 

"He  dined  early  in  the  regular  dining-room,  not  in  the 
Ritz.  He  thought  he'd  lie  low  until  to-day.  He  stands 
terribly  in  awe  of  you.  He's  afraid  you'll  have  him  thrown 
overboard." 

"Are  you  never  going  to  grow  up,  Helena  ?"  Mrs.  Slater- 
lee  asked,  a  touch  of  acerbity  in  her  voice.  "You're 
twenty  already.  Either  you  promise  me  not  to  see  Mr.  Buel 
again  alone,  or  I  send  a  wireless  back  by  Cape  Race  to 
your  father  that  he  is  on  board.  I  give  you  your  choice !" 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         37 

"You  wouldn't  do  that !" 

"I  shall,  unless  you  promise.  Then  the  responsibility 
will  no  longer  be  mine." 

"I  promise,  of  course." 

But  Mrs.  Slaterlee  did  not  find  this  arrangement  as  all 
encompassing  as  she  had  supposed.  For  while  Miss  Cass 
and  Jordan  Buel  were  no  longer  alone  together,  she  found 
them  able  to  converse  with  each  other  without  the  use  of 
a  spoken  word.  Their  eyes  and  hands  seemed  to  express 
their  feelings,  oblivious  to  her  presence.  And  as  they  paced 
the  deck  three  abreast  she  forgot  that  her  charge  was  a 
naughty  girl,  and  Mr.  Buel  had  played  his  game  unfairly; 
she  was  conscious  only  that  they  were  lovers,  and  of  feeling 
odious  and  de  trop.  She  was  unable  to  interpret  the  glances 
which  they  sent  quivering  across  her  person,  and  regretted 
that  she  had  allowed  Mrs.  Cass's  pleadings  to  soften  her 
own  resolve. 

Nor  could  she  give  all  her  attention  to  Helena,  for 
though  she  never  caught  Caramai  or  Vida  pursuing  any 
obvious  flirtation,  she  was  still  aware  that  they  had  made 
the  acquaintance  of  several  gentlemen  on  board  in  devious 
ways.  It  was  therefore  a  relief  when  Cherbourg  was 
reached  without  mishap,  and  four  hours  later  the  boat -train 
to  Paris  drew  into  the  Gare  St.  Lazare.  Mr.  Buel  had 
been  instructed  that  the  ladies  were  stopping  at  the  Hotel 
Meurice  and  that  he  was  expected  to  seek  quarters  in  an- 
other hostelry  not  of  their  neighbourhood.  After  being 
interminably  detained  by  the  Customs,  they  drove  off  in  a 
small  omnibus,  their  trunks  on  the  roof,  to  their  hotel  in 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

Here  they  were  comfortably  installed  in  a  suite  of  three 
rooms  high  up  at  the  rear  of  the  building,  their  windows 
giving  on  to  a  panorama  of  roofs  and  chimney-pots  of 
Paris.  It  was  the  first  excursion  abroad  of  both  Vida  and 
Caramai,  and  for  their  joint  benefit  days  were  planned 
at  which  mornings  spent  at  the  Louvre  were  followed  by 
hurried  returns  for  luncheon,  to  be  superseded  by  refreshed 
attacks  upon  the  art  of  Paris.  Two  evenings  a  week  were 


38         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

solemnly  consecrated  to  a  baignoire  at  the  Frangais  or 
Odeon  in  order  to  familiarise  themselves  with  the  language. 
Mrs.  Slaterlee  usually  held  a  copy  of  the  play  and  glanced 
through  the  succeeding  scenes  during  entre-acts. 

Helena's  mind,  at  such  times,  was  with  Mr.  Buel,  who 
was  probably  listening  to  the  new  opera  at  the  Comique  or 
witnessing  a  very  daring  piece  at  the  Varietes,  to  which 
all  Paris  was  crowding.  However,  she  had  asked  to  be- 
come one  of  the  party  and  so  continued  the  ceaseless  round, 
obedient,  without  protest.  This  continued  for  over  a  fort- 
night, when  one  afternoon  Mrs.  Slaterlee  remarked  that 
their  itinerary  included  a  visit  to  des  Invalides,  the  Musee 
de  Cluny  and  Hotel  de  Ville.  This  time  Miss  Cass  openly 
rebelled.  Her  familiarity  with  Paris  made  it  impossible  to 
enjoy  the  city  as  a  tripper,  and  she  begged  permission 
not  to  accompany  them,  but  be  allowed  to  pay  her  respects 
to  a  friend  who  had  an  hotel  in  Avenue  Kleber. 

Miss  Cass  had  suddenly  bethought  herself  of  the  Mar- 
quise de  Lanel  and  decided  to  see  her.  Madame  de  Lanel 
was  an  acquaintance  Miss  Cass  had  made  a  couple  of  years 
previous  on  a  Mediterranean  liner,  who,  at  that  time,  had 
been  a  Miss  Edith  Doelger,  a  native  of  Toledo,  Ohio.  Miss 
Doelger  was  pliant,  garrulous,  with  a  certain  fluidity  of 
thought  which  ran  naturally  to  words,  who  had  affixed 
herself  to  Miss  Cass  while  en  route  between  Algiers  and 
Naples.  Upon  reaching  the  latter  place  Helena  had  taken 
the  express  to  Rome  and  Miss  Doelger  had  re-embarked 
for  Greece.  During  the  following  months  she  had  bom- 
barded the  object  of  her  attachment  with  postcards,  small 
souvenirs  and  a  quantity  of  notes  on  tinted  paper  covered 
with  large  angular  and  ill-formed  writing  in  which  she 
signed  herself  "Yours  fondly,  Edith." 

There  were  times  when  two  of  these  letters  reached  her 
by  a  single  post,  to  be  followed  by  weeks  of  silence,  after 
which  a  fresh  fusilade  of  endearments  was  recommenced. 
Having  remained  for  several  months  the  recipient  of  suc- 
cessive affection  and  neglect,  Helena  one  morning  received 
the  announcement  of  Miss  Doelger's  betrothal  to  the 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         39 

Marquis  de  Lanel.  She  wrote  that  "Tristram"  was  al- 
ready jealous  of  "dear  Nell,"  since  he  had  heard  so  much 
about  her  from  his  fiancee.  Neither  of  them  would  be 
thoroughly  happy,  following  their  marriage,  unless  Nell  paid 
them  a  "long,  long  visit."  Helena  smiled  secretly  over 
these  effusions.  She  knew  she  would  hear  little  of  such 
invitations  once  Miss  Doelger  became  the  Marquise  de 
Lanel. 

In  this,  however,  she  did  her  friend  an  injustice  and  dur- 
ing the  past  year  she  received  frequent  communications 
sprawling  over  scented  coroneted  paper,  in  which  she  was 
requested  to  regard  20  bis  Avenue  Kleber  as  a  "second 
home,"  and  to  look  upon  their  estate  in  Brittany  as  her 
own.  "Our  latch-string  is  always  out  to  you,"  she  reiter- 
ated, and  was  as  ever  "fondly  Edith." 

An  acquaintance  that  had  been  maintained  almost  entirely 
on  paper,  in  which  her  correspondent's  words  had  all  seemed 
excessive,  made  her  approach  the  hotel  with  some  trepida- 
tion. She  paid  the  coachman  and  alighted  from  her  taxi- 
cab  and  rang  the  bell  at  No.  20  bis  with  a  moment's  doubt 
if  she  would  recognise  Edith  if  she  passed  her  in  the  street. 
She  had  never  returned  the  ardour  of  the  other's  affection 
and  had  been  somewhat  embarrassed  by  its  violence. 

She  was  admitted  to  a  spacious,  shrouded  hall  and  di- 
rected up  a  flight  of  shallow  steps  into  a  salon  which  seemed 
a  conventional  setting  for  a  Louis  Quinze  comedy.  Here 
she  remained  in  silence,  punctuated  only  by  the  ticking  of 
a  large,  round-bellied  ormolu  clock  on  the  chimney  piece. 
Twice  she  rose  deciding  to  leave  but  there  was  no  footman 
in  the  hall  and  she  hesitated  to  ring  in  order  to  be  shown, 
out.  Possibly  Edith  was  bathing  or  dressing,  although  it 
was  the  hour  when  one  should  be  functionally  visible  to 
guests.  At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  she  was  on  her  feet 
and  resolute,  her  hand  on  the  bell  when  she  heard  draperies 
on  the  stairs. 

Then  Madame  de  Lanel,  in  a  teagown  of  silver  lace,  with 
bands  of  skunk,  stood  in  the  doorway,  jewels  flashing  on 
her  fingers  and  tassels  of  animated  gems  quivering  in  her 


40         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

ears.  She  clasped  one  of  Helena's  hands  in  both  of  hers 
and  kissed  her  impersonally.  Miss  Cass's  first  impression 
was  that  she  had  rarely  obtained  a  kiss  which  expressed 
such  utter  boredom.  A  hurried  survey  of  the  Marquise's 
toilette  assured  her  it  had  been  assumed  for  her  benefit. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  Paris?"  she  asked  in  a  voice 
in  which  Toledo,  Ohio,  seemed  infinitely  remote,  "and  at 
this  time  of  year?" 

"Oh,  Paris  is  very  much  the  same  at  one  season  as  at 
another,  to  anyone  who  is  on  the  outside." 

"But  it  shouldn't  be.  You  Americans  are  so  incompre- 
hensible. If  you've  come  for  society  you  are  much  too  late. 
This  is  my  home,  and  yet  I  don't  know  a  soul  in  town.  Not 
a  soul.  And  if  you've  come  for  clothes  you  are  much  too 
early." 

She  laughed  indulgently  and  then  remarked : 

"The  only  costumes  in  evidence  in  August  are  for  the 
ladies  of  the  autre  monde  and  for  Americans." 

Then  she  added  more  cordially: 

"Tristram  will  be  desole  to  miss  you.  I've  so  often  told 
him  what  dear  friends  we  are.  You  see  we  go  to  our  es- 
tate in  Brittany  early  to-morrow  and  remain  there  until 
the  holidays,  so  I  suppose  I  shan't  have  another  opportunity 
of  seeing  you." 

Miss  Cass  expressed  her  regret  and  the  Marquise, 
having  made  her  absence  plain,  now  interrogated  her  as  to 
her  purpose  in  coming  to  Paris.  When  Helena  had  ex- 
plained, she  said : 

"Then  you're  a  member  of  a  party?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  can't  leave  them  ?" 

"Hardly." 

"Comtne  c'est  enttuiant.  Of  course  there's  nothing  to  do 
in  the  country,  and  Tristram  and  I  are  very  dull,  but  I 
should  have  loved  to  have  you  with  us.  You  and  I  could 
amuse  ourselves  just  being  together,  couldn't  we?" 

Helena  agreed. 

"But  you  wouldn't  ask  to  be  released?" 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         41 

,  "I  couldn't.  I  begged  to  be  included.  And  my  being 
along  rather  lessens  Mrs.  Slaterlee's  expense,  so  I  wouldn't 
suggest  it." 

"I  don't  know  whether  to  be  annoyed  with  you  or  not.  I 
have  promised  myself  a  visit  from  you  for  so  long.  Why 
didn't  you  make  plans  to  be  left  here  in  my  charge?  I 
don't  believe  you  trust  Tristram  and  me." 

Helena  was  silent. 

"I  see  you  haven't  any  very  cogent  reasons." 

She  hesitated  and  then  said  truthfully: 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  really  meant  it." 

"Cela  c'est  trap  fort!" 

An  hour  later,  following  tea,  Miss  Cass  suffered  herself 
to  be  kissed  by  her  hostess  and,  entering  a  taxicab,  was 
driven  back  to  the  Meurice. 

As  she  crossed  the  lounge  a  gentleman  rose  from  an  arm- 
chair and  came  toward  her.  She  recognised  Mr.  Buel. 

"Here  you  are !"  he  exclaimed.  "I've  been  waiting  nearly 
an  hour.  They  told  me  you  went  out  alone  and  I  thought 
I'd  take  a  chance  that  you'd  return  alone." 

"But  you  shouldn't  be  here.    We  promised." 

"Don't  scold.  I  have  a  plan.  The  nights  are  so  wonder- 
ful, why  can't  I  take  you  out  to  Pre  Catalan  to-night?  I 
mean  all  of  you.  Mrs.  Slaterlee  can  sit  between  us.  What 
a  night  to  motor  under  the  stars !  You  aren't  seeing  any- 
thing of  Paris  as  it  is,  going  to  galleries  by  day  and  to 
stuffy  performances  of  musty  old  plays  by  night.  And 
you  can't  go  about  without  a  man,  so  why  not  utilise  me? 
What  do  you  say?" 

"I'd  love  it.  I'll  ask  Mrs.  Slaterlee,  only  please  go,  and 
don't  do  this  again.  It  doesn't  look  nice  and  Madame  Sla- 
terlee's opinion  of  me  is  none  too  high  at  present." 

But  Miss  Cass  had  no  more  than  uttered  the  words 
when  Mrs.  Slaterlee  entered  the  lounge  entrenched  be- 
tween her  two  charges.  Mr.  Buel  approached  her  and 
bowed,  intending  an  explanation  of  his  presence,  but  Mrs. 
Slaterlee  passed  him,  ignoring  his  salutation,  and  entered 
the  lift  with  her  young  ladies.  Helena  was  just  in  time  to 


42         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

follow  her  into  the  car  before  the  door  was  closed  upon 
her,  and  they  rose.  Buel  cursed,  put  on  his  hat,  and  strode 
out  to  the  street. 

Helena  was  in  her  most  pacifying  mood  when  she  entered 
Mrs.  Slaterlee's  bedroom,  for  she  realised  the  evidence  was 
against  her.  But  her  cheeks  flamed  slowly  as  the  door  was 
shut  and  the  two  women  confronted  each  other.  She  felt 
then  she  would  not  be  given  a  chance  to  explain. 

"When  you  asked  to  remain  behind  so  you  could  visit  a 
friend  I  believed  you.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  after  your 
reasons  for  joining  us  at  all.  I'm  not  going  to  say  I  am 
disappointed  in  you,  for  my  feeling  is  so  much  stronger 
than  that.  At  least  you  have  a  brain  and  I  supposed  a  sense 
of  honour.  But  the  realisation  that  you  are  in  trust  I 
thought  would  keep  you  from  acting  differently.  I  don't 
suppose  I  would  ever  have  known  that  you  spent  the  after- 
noon with  that  man  if  we  had  not  returned  earlier  than  we 
expected.  If  I  knew  of  anyone  who  was  going  back  to  New 
York,  I  should  insist  upon  your  being  with  them  and  writing 
a  complete  explanation  to  your  father.  But  as  I  don't,  I 
suppose  the  pleasure  of  my  holiday  must  be  destroyed  by 
having  to  keep  you  always  within  sight.  I  shan't  refer  to 
this  again,  but  in  the  future  when  you  don't  care  to  accom- 
pany us  I  shall  remain  with  you.  And  I  shall  keep  sedu- 
lously to  this  plan  until  you  are  home  and  I  am  no  longer 
responsible  for  you." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  after  she  finished  speaking. 
The  elder  woman  was  about  to  open  the  door  and  dismiss 
Helena  from  her  room,  when  she  found  her  voice. 

"Mrs.  Slaterlee,  I  am  no  longer  under  your  guidance. 
That  was  why  I  was  talking  to  Mr.  Buel  this  afternoon. 
The  Marquise  de  Lanel  has  asked  me  to  visit  her  and  her 
husband  in  Brittany.  They  are  leaving  early  to-morrow 
morning  and  I  have  promised  to  accompany  them.  I 
merely  returned  early  in  order  to  pack." 

Twenty  minutes  later  Miss  Cass  stood  in  the  Louis- 
Quinze  salon  at  20  bis  Avenue  Kleber.  As  she  explained 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         43 

her  predicament  for  a  second  time,  the  Marquise  de  Lanel 
showed  the  whites  of  her  eyes. 

"But,  my  dear,  why  have  you  quarrelled?  How  could 
you  do  anything  so  stupid?  You  must  make  your  peace 
with  cette  dame" 

"That,  never.  I  can't.  I  told  her  I  was  leaving,  that  I 
was  coming  to  you.  How  can  I  tell  her  now  that  that  was 
sheer  invention?" 

"Quelle  betise.    Why  on  earth  did  you  say  such  a  thing  ?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  was  angry." 

"Well,  tell  her  that." 

"I  can't." 

"And  why  not,  mon  Dieu!" 

"Edith,  don't  you  want  me?  You  asked  me  this  after- 
noon— you  didn't  know  whether  you  could  forgive  me  for 
not  visiting  you.  And  now  I  tell  you  I  am  free." 

"Of  course  I  want  you,  cherie.  How  can  you  suggest 
that  ?  But  this  is  hardly  convenable." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  come  as  the  result  of  a  quarrel. 
And  then  you  will  be  so  bored  at  the  chateau." 

"I  shall  be  content  if  you  and  I  are  together,"  Miss  Cass 
remarked  shrewdly. 

But  Madame  de  Lanel  seemed  not  to  recognise  her  own 
words. 

"Tristram  is  far  from  well  and  will  have  to  be  kept  quiet. 
And  we  will  do  practically  no  entertaining.  And  then  we 
are  rather  short  of  servants,  and  I'm  not  taking  the  car." 

"I  shan't  mind.    I  shall  enjoy  the  rest." 

"Very  well.  You  must  spend  the  night  with  your  party. 
We  are  to  leave  on  the  eight  o'clock  from  the  Gare  Mont- 
parnasse  to-morrow  morning.  And  don't  miss  the  train. 
Tristram  is  fussy  about  trains,  so  we  won't  wait  for  you 
if  you  are  not  there." 

It  was  far  from  the  invitation  Miss  Cass  had  expected, 
but  as  there  seemed  nothing  else  for  her  to  do  she  ac- 
quiesced : 

"I'll  be  there." 


V 

OUTSIDE  the  windows  the  flying  landscape  unfolded.  The 
river  valley  was  peaceful,  verdant,  its  flow  suave,  voice- 
less between  its  banks  thick  with  reeds  and  water  grasses 
that  waded  knee  deep  into  the  stream.  Here  and 
there  were  long  stretches  of  poplars,  formal,  clipped,  looking 
more  like  a  Sisley  or  a  Didier  than  they  did  like  rural 
France  itself.  And  glittering  in  the  August  sun  followed 
white,  powdery  roads  over  which  an  occasional  motor  sped 
racing  the  train. 

It  passed  hamlets,  clustering  towns  and  the  unvarying 
agricultural  country,  the  fields  cultivated,  every  clod  preg- 
nant, yielding  its  penultimate  of  life.  Fields  of  turnips, 
lettuces  and  blue  cabbages  overlay  the  slopes  like  some  in- 
tricate pattern  of  a  mammoth  quilt.  Labourers  at  work 
raised  bent  bodies  to  watch  the  train  out  of  sight. 

Within  their  carriage  Miss  Cass  sat  opposite  her  host  and 
hpstess.  She  found  the  Marquise  de  Lanel  a  slight  man 
whose  ill  health  was  still  apparent  and  she  imagined  his  long 
residence  in  the  country  was  to  overcome  continued  aenemia 
and  threatened  tuberculosis.  Slight  of  build,  his  face  faintly 
bronzed  by  much  out-of-door  life,  his  high  colour  did  not 
deceive  her  as  to  his  frail  constitution.  She  noticed  his 
hands,  delicately  made,  two  fingers  nicotine-stained  from 
incessant  smoking. 

Directly  they  had  ensconced  themselves  to  prepare  for 
several  hours  of  travel  Madame  de  Lanel  became  insistent 
upon  finding  Tristram's  cap,  unpacking  his  rug  and  per- 
forming various  offices  for  his  comfort.  He  submitted 
through  habit  to  these  attentions,  but  Miss  Cass  believed  it 
was  with  the  fervent  wish  that  he  might  be  cared  for  with 
less  aggression.  She  realised  that  although  Edith  loved 
her  husband  and  still  remained  in  some  awe  of  him,  she 

44 


45 

was  not  adverse  to  having  her  devotion  commented  upon. 

As  she  faced  the  brilliant  sunlight  without,  by  some 
effect  of  light  she  seemed  less  vivid  than  in  her  shaded 
salon.  A  blonde  of  extreme  type,  she  was  fair  almost  to 
the  point  of  being  colourless.  And  Helena  was  interested 
to  notice  that  when  her  friend's  cheek  rested  against  her 
dark  travelling  pillow  that  it  left  a  trace  of  powder  like  the 
pollen  of  a  moth.  It  was  a  moth  that  Edith  resembled, 
with  her  pale  lashes  and  faint  brows. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  remarked,  "my  French  'in-laws' 
had  never  met  an  American  until  they  met  poor  little  me. 
They  had  seen  our  countrywomen  at  a  distance — Paris  is 
overrun  with  them  at  certain  seasons — but  they  had  never 
met  one.  Us  ont  les  id]ees  les  plus  extraordinmres  de  nos1 
moeurs.  They  call  me  'Bebe*  They  said  'Edith'  ne  me 
va  pas." 

She  spoke  a  correct,  painstaking  French,  an  accomplish- 
ment which  she  believed  was  not  native  to  the  average 
tripper. 

"Cela  vous  ennuie  si  je  parle  la  langue  de  mon  adoption. 
Je  me  fiche  de  I' Anglais,  et  j'ai  un   tas  de  chose  a  vous 
dire." 
Helena  smiled. 

"Tout  au  contraire.  Cela  me  plait  encore  mieux.  Pend- 
ant que  je~  suis  id,  je  veux  etre  aussi  Parisienne  que  pos- 
sible." 

Madame  de  Lanel  made  no  comment,  but  the  Marquis 
laid  aside  his  Mercure  de  France  surprised  by  the  quality  of 
her  pronunciation.  He  was  not  the  first  to  be  amazed 
by  the  cadence  of  her  speech,  liquid,  clear,  articulate. 

"Ton  amie  parle  bien.    Hein?" 

"Du  vrai?"    Helena  persisted. 

"Not  badly,  but  she  has  the  inevitable  accent,"  Madame 
de  Lanel  was  at  some  pains  to  say. 

"Mille  remerciments,  Bebe." 

"Don't  call  me  Bcbe,"  she  continued  with  asperity. 
"That  petit  name  is  only  for  my  French  relatives.  After 
all  we  are  Americans  and  it  is  absurd  for  us  to  attempt  to 


46         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

hinder  our  speech  by  talking  a  language  which  is  foreign 
to  us  both." 

Nor  did  her  hostess  relapse  into  French  again  while  in 
the  presence  of  her  guest. 

It  was  past  mid-day  when  they  alighted  from  the  train. 
A  series  of  mishaps,  microscopic  in  themselves,  but  per- 
sistent, had  served  to  endanger  Madame  de  Lanel's  good  na- 
ture, so  that  the  drive  to  the  chateau  was  achieved  in  almost 
total  silence.  True  to  her  word  the  Marquise  had  not  taken 
her  car  from  Paris  and  they  drove  behind  a  pair  of  light 
luggage  horses,  a  laborious  progress  under  a  blinding  sun. 
Miss  Cass,  whose  own  fondness  was  for  flying  trains  and 
swifter  motor  cars,  curbed  a  natural  impatience.  Her 
friend  had  offered  her  unexpected  asylum  and  she  was  in 
a  mood  to  appreciate  her  slightest  whim. 

From  time  to  time  Monsieur  de  Lanel  pointed  out  acres 
they  passed  which  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather,  and  of 
the  remaining  property  that  was  his  own.  She  surmised 
that  his  was  the  simple,  unaffected  pride  in  his  farm  which 
the  Marquise  preferred  to  refer  to  as  the  "chateau,"  or 
the  "estate."  He  had  developed  an  interest  in  raising 
short-horns,  and  expressed  a  desire  to  visit  the  great  cattle 
ranches  of  America,  but  the  subject  was  not  sympathetic 
to  his  wife.  She  was  not  actively  annoyed,  since  his  fancy 
was  profitless,  but  she  could  not  have  endured  the  thought 
of  his  dealing  in  cattle  becoming  a  source  of  income. 

The  house,  as  they  approached  it,  was  low  lying,  a  ram- 
bling structure,  unostentatious,  surrounded  by  plane  trees 
and  vivid  turf,  and  at  a  distance  were  stables  and  a  quan- 
tity of  out-houses  all  scrupulously  white. 

Bidden  to  enter,  Miss  Cass  found  herself  in  a  long,  low 
hall,  with  raftered  ceilings,  such  as  she  had  imagined  were 
to  be  found  in  old  French  inns  in  Cathedral  towns.  A  few 
steps  admitted  to  a  vast  lounge  and  a  music  room  beyond, 
furnished  in  old  French  pieces,  and  the  evidence  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Lanel's  untiring  travels  covered  walls  and  floor. 

"What  an  adorable  fireplace,"  she  remarked  as  she  stood 
well  under  its  hood. 


Edith  interrupted  her  with  a  light  touch  on  her  arm. 

"Marie  will  show  you  to  your  room  now,"  she  said, 
"and  I  will  have  your  tea  sent  up  so  you  can  rest  until 
dinner.  I  know  you're  tired." 

Miss  Cass  followed  the  parlour  maid  upstairs,  feeling 
very  untired  and  rebellious.  As  she  continued  down  the 
upper  hall  she  passed  several  open  doors.  She  caught  a 
glimpse  of  large  sitting-rooms  and  dressing-rooms  that 
connected  Madame  de  Lanel's  suite  with  that  of  her  hus- 
band's. 

At  the  end  of  the  passage  the  parlour  maid  opened  a  door 
to  a  tiny  bedroom  which  contained  one  window  and  was 
furnished  with  a  bed,  a  chest  of  drawers,  a  writing  table 
and  two  chairs.  Miss  Cass  looked  about  her  with  a  feeling 
of  rising  indignation.  It  was  not  such  a  room  as  she 
could  have  accepted  in  any  hotel.  She  wondered  why  such 
crampt  and  uncomfortable  quarters  had  been  reserved  es- 
pecially for  her.  Surely  there  must  be  other  guest  rooms. 
The  maid  had  unpacked  the  contents  of  her  bag  and  laid 
them  away  in  drawers.  After  murmuring  that  tea  would  be 
sent  up  presently,  she  withdrew. 

Miss  Cass  paced  the  length  of  the  room  twice  and  then 
sat  down.  In  passing  the  mirror  she  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  expression  and  it  had  not  been  pleasant.  After  all 
she  was  spoiled  and  it  was  foolish  to  allow  trifles  to  upset 
one's  temper.  "II  faut  du  calme,"  as  her  hostess  would 
say,  and  at  the  thought  of  the  Marquise  de  Lanel  she  began 
to  laugh. 

She  removed  her  hat,  her  blouse  and  skirt  and  put  on  a 
muslin  dressing  sacque  and  lay  down  in  her  petticoat  on 
the  bed.  She  vaguely  wondered  if  this  wasn't  really  her 
maid's  room,  who  perhaps  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  sleep- 
ing in  the  servants'  hall  so  as  to  be  near  her  mistress.  Her 
trunk  had  not  arrived  and  she  had  brought  nothing  with  her 
to  read.  She  thought  once  to  rise  and  dress  and  go  below 
stairs  in  a  search  of  something  to  amuse  her,  and  then  she 
felt  curiously  sure  that  any  such  action  would  annoy  Ma- 


48         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

dame  de  Lanel.  She  had  been  instructed  to  rest,  and  it  was 
advisable  that  she  obey. 

Her  glance  taking  in  the  limitations  of  her  room  noticed 
two  candlesticks  on  the  chest  of  drawers.  The  house  was 
without  electricity ;  that  was  her  only  means  of  lighting  the 
room.  She  had  planned  to  excuse  herself  shortly  after 
dinner  and  read,  but  even  such  diversion  was  not  possible. 

When  tea  arrived  she  drank  it  almost  at  a  draught  and 
then  lay  down  once  more.  She  felt  particularly  annoyed 
when  the  dressing  bell  rang  that  she  had  to  put  on  the 
same  dress  she  had  travelled  in.  She  remembered  a  tea 
gown  in  her  trunk  in  which  she  would  have  appeared  to 
greater  advantage. 

The  Marquise  de  Lanel  told  her  early  next  morning  that 
she  was  driving  to  the  village  and  requested  her  friend 
to  accompany  her. 

"A  few  of  the  country  families  are  giving  a  dance 
next  month  and  I  am  on  one  of  the  committees, 
so  I  thought  I  would  find  out  just  what  has  been  planned 
during  my  absence.  The  Countess  des  Roches  and  a 
number  of  pleasant  people  are  active  workers.  Then  I 
must  make  sure  of  a  few  orders  for  Tristram's  lunch.  He's 
entertaining  some  old  Lycee  friends  to-morrow.  It's  too 
bad  that  it  has  to  be  while  you're  here.  If  you  were  only 
a  married  woman  I'd  ask  you  to  come  downstairs,  but 
since  you're  not  I'll  have  a  tray  sent  up  to  your  room." 

They  had  entered  a  governess'-cart,  the  Marquise  had 
taken  the  reins  and  they  were  now  jolting  over  the  country 
road. 

"I'm  not  taking  any  groom  with  me  this  morning,"  she 
said  explaining,  "because  every  man  is  needed  during  Au- 
gust and  September.  We're  short  of  servants  as  it  is,  and, 
naturally,  I  don't  stand  on  any  ceremonie  with  you.  You 
can  hold  the  reins  while  I  look  after  my  commissions." 

The  morning  was  clear,  unveiled,  the  arch  of  empyrean 
as  dazzling  in  colour  as  a  liquid  turquoise.  The  smell  of 
wild  things  in  the  air;  the  essence  of  the  country  made  it- 
self felt  in  a  thousand  scents,  ripening  berries,  bleaching 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         49 

grass  and  the  aroma  of  fresh  growth  bruised  by  grazing 
cattle.  Several  times  their  approach  startled  a  covey  of 
partridges  from  the  roadside  or  in  the  dust  by  their  wheels 
they  saw  ground-coloured  toads  hopping  among  the  weeds. 

Reaching  the  village,  her  hostess  handed  the  reins  to 
Miss  Cass  and  alighted  to  make  the  rounds  of  the  market 
and  the  clustering  shops  which  enclosed  the  public  square. 
For  some  time  Helena  remained  amused  by  the  animated 
life  as  shrewd  housewives  bargained,  their  panniers  over- 
flowing with  vegetables,  and  peasants  clattered  by  on 
wooden  sabots  filled  with  straw.  The  Marquise  had  been 
absent  an  hour  before  Helena  observed  her  returning  to 
the  cart  accompanied  by  a  Frenchman,  while  a  peasant  fol- 
lowed a  few  steps  behind  them  carrying  their  purchases. 

As  they  reached  the  governess'-cart  the  Marquise  turned 
to  dismiss  her  acquaintance,  but  the  Frenchman  having 
sighted  Helena,  made  some  remark  about  la  belle  Ameri- 
caine,  and  Edith  introduced  Comte  Andre. 

He  was  encliante,  and  asked  if  Mademoiselle  was  visit- 
ing la  Marquise.  Hearing  that  she  was,  he  expressed  an 
intention  of  coming  to  see  them,  but  Edith  had  taken  the 
reins  and  now  seemed  restive  to  be  off. 

"Will  Mademoiselle  be  here  for  the  charity  ball  next 
month  ?" 

Helena  was  about  to  agree  when  Madame  de  Lanel  spoke 
up  promptly. 

"I  hope  so,"  she  said.  "That  is  if  Miss  Cass  can  urge  her 
mother  to  let  her  return  to  me.  Au  revoir." 

The  single  sentence  seemed  to  vibrate  in  the  air  during 
the  drive  back.  The  charity  ball  was  scheduled  to  take  place 
in  three  weeks.  That  meant  she  was  intended  to  terminate 
her  visit  before  then.  .  .  . 

What  had  she  done  or  said  to  rouse  this  latent  antago- 
nism, for  there  was  no  doubting  their  strained  relations 
which  were  momentarily  growing  nearer  and  nearer  to  open 
rupture.  Under  present  conditions  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  remain,  nor  could  she  travel  about  Europe  alone.  It  meant 
writing  to  Mrs.  Slaterlee  and  begging  to  return  to  the  shel- 


50         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

ter  of  her  chaperonage  while  she  ate  very  humble  pie  in- 
deed. It  would  not  be  pleasant ;  it  would  mean  defeat ;  yet 
anything  was  preferable  to  the  scant  courtesy  which  existed 
between  her  and  her  hostess.  She  made  up  her  mind  to 
compose  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Slaterlee  directly  they  reached 
the  house,  and  since  the  point  was  decided  she  could  en- 
dure Madame  de  Lanel's  snubs  with  greater  fortitude  now 
she  was  so  soon  to  renounce  her  hospitality. 

That  afternoon  the  letter  written  and  despatched,  Helena 
remained  seated  on  the  verandah  amusing  herself  with  a 
game  of  solitaire  when  there  came  a  great  clatter  of  hoofs 
up  the  drive  and  she  saw  that  two  horsemen  were  canter- 
ing toward  the  house.  As  they  swung  to  the  ground  she 
recognised  one  to  be  Comte  Andre  of  the  morning  en- 
counter and  the  second  his  friend.  Helena  remained  on 
the  verandah  chatting  with  them  while  she  sent  a  maid 
to  summon  Madame  de  Lanel,  but  as  that  lady  did  not  ap- 
pear at  the  end  of  a  half  hour  Helena  rang  once  more. 
The  parlour  maid  explained  that  Madame  had  been  de- 
tained but  would  be  down  presently. 

Comte  Andre,  who  seemed  content  with  present  com- 
pany, suggested  a  rubber  at  bridge,  but  when  this  had  been 
played  and  Madame  de  Lanel  had  sent  no  further  message 
to  explain  her  absence,  Miss  Cass  ran  upstairs  and  knocked 
on  her  door.  There  was  no  answer  and  opening  the  door 
to  Edith's  sitting-room,  she  found  it  unoccupied.  She  was 
gripped  by  a  feeling  of  rage.  She  had  purposely  been  left 
alone  to  talk  to  two  men  whom  she  did  not  know  while  her 
hostess  had  gone  to  bed  or  perhaps  left  by  the  rear  of  the 
house  for  an  afternoon's  gunning  with  her  husband. 

Helena  returned  promptly  to  the  verandah  profuse  in 
her  apologies  for  Madame  de  Lanel,  who  she  said  was 
suffering  from  a  severe  headache ;  was  in  fact  feeling  very, 
very  ill,  so  she  must  be  excused.  In  reply  to  the  gentle- 
men's commiseration  she  assured  them  that  a  doctor  was 
not  necessary.  That  the  care  of  Miss  Cass  and  Madame's 
maid  was  all  that  was  required.  After  she  had  seen  Comte 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         51 

Andre  and  his  friend  mount  their  horses  and  ride  discon- 
solately away  she  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  room. 

She  realised  at  once  that  Madame  de  Lanel's  action  was 
not  the  result  of  a  haphazard  irritation  or  annoyance. 
This  was  the  definite  outgrowth  of  a  purpose,  which  was 
to  rid  herself  of  her  unwelcome  guest  in  as  brief  a  time 
as  possible.  Each  effrontery  to  ordinary  hospitality  had 
been  planned  and  was  part  of  an  expected  crisis  toward 
which  they  were  moving.  The  woman  had  decided  upon  a 
quarrel  and  was  now  lying  in  wait  for  the  means  of  precipi- 
tance. 

That  night  at  dinner  Miss  Cass  made  no  reference  to  the 
gentlemen's  visit  or  Edith's  non-appearance.  She  was 
trying  to  determine  what  factor  had  brought  about  the 
breach.  Surely,  she  reaffirmed,  the  Marquise  did  not  do 
her  the  honour  to  be  jealous,  since  Monsieur  de  Lanel's  at- 
tentions had  at  no  time  been  more  than  those  of  host  and 
had  increased  only  as  his  wife  had  become  more  negligent 
of  her  guest's  comfort.  Twice  he  voiced  some  monitory 
objection  to  the  Marquise  for  making  plans  for  the  future 
in  which  Miss  Cass  had  no  part,  to  which  she  replied: 

"But  Helena  does  not  want  to  be  treated  like  a  guest,  do 
you,  Helena?" 

"Indeed  not." 

"But  I  can't  make  that  clear  to  Tristram.  He  seems  to 
think  that  while  you're  here  I  should  be  with  you  every  min- 
ute. I  tell  him  you  enjoy  yourself  more  being  alone,  and 
anyway  I  warned  you  we  were  fearfully  dull,  didn't  I?" 

"I  believe  you  did." 

"Men  don't  understand  that  women  don't  want  to  be 
perpetually  together.  The  real  trouble  is  men  don't  under- 
stand women  at  all." 

This  utterance  passed  in  silence.  Then  Miss  Cass  fixed 
Edith  with  her  eyes  as  she  watched  her  across  the  table. 

"Isn't  it  our  salvation,"  she  said  smilingly,  "that  men 
don't  understand  us?  Did  you  ever  think  what  a  horrible 
place  the  world  would  be  if  men  saw  through  women's 
motives  as  we  women  see  through  each  other's?  There  is 


52         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

no  greater  protection  for  the  average  woman  from  being 
found  out  than  to  be  misunderstood." 

She  realised  that  night  in  her  room  that  her  seemingly 
affable  passage  at  arms  at  dinner  had  not  been  the  wisest 
procedure.  The  Marquise  was  looking  for  an  instrument 
that  she  could  place  her  hands  upon  as  a  means  of  opening 
hostilities.  Was  it  not  therefore  ill-advised  for  her  to 
seem  to  heave  the  first  brick  ?  She  must  choose  each  word 
with  care  until  she  heard  from  Mrs.  Slaterlee,  and  since 
that  would  take  two  days  she  would  keep  to  the  safety 
of  her  room  and  silence  so  as  to  wait  until  supplied  with 
a  place  to  lay  her  head  before  she  was  evicted  from  her 
present  shelter. 

The  next  day  was  the  morning  of  the  Marquis  de  Lanel's 
luncheon  and  his  wife  remained  invisible  until  noon-day. 
Miss  Cass's  offer  to  supply  the  table  with  flowers  was  re- 
jected, and  she  remained  in  her  room  as  the  motors  began 
to  arrive  at  one  o'clock  and  the  explosion  of  many  men's 
voices  came  up  to  her  door.  By  two  o'clock  the  voices  had 
become  a  confused  drone,  heard  only  indistinctly,  and  she 
judged  the  twenty  men  were  seated  at  table.  It  was  an 
hour  later  that  there  came  a  tap  on  her  door  and  a  maid 
entered  bearing  a  tray  on  which  was  her  luncheon.  As  she 
took  one  glance  at  the  soup,  cutlet  and  boiled  potato  she 
realised  she  had  been  sent  a  part  of  the  servants'  meal,  not 
that  which  the  guests  were  enjoying.  She  experienced  a 
moment  of  unreasoning  anger.  She  refused  to  touch  the 
food.  She  would  allow  the  tray  to  return  uninvesti- 
gated.  .  .  . 

By  four  o'clock,  overcome  with  hunger,  she  ate  the  cold 
food  ravenously  and  wished  that  even  the  servants'  meal 
had  been  less  scanty.  She  had  left  no  morsel  of  bread  or 
cheese,  or  potato  or  cutlet,  and  drained  the  plate  of  soup. 

The  luncheon,  it  appeared,  was  a  great  success,  and  when 
Miss  Cass  descended  the  stairs  that  evening  after  the 
dressing-gong  had  sounded  she  found  her  host  and  hostess 
discussing  certain  guests  in  a  room  wreathed  in  smoke  and 
filled  with  wilting  decorations.  Madame  de  Lanel  was 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         53 

still  flushed  and  pleased  as  the  result  of  being  the  only  lady 
in  the  company  of  twenty  gentlemen. 

Next  morning  Helena  found  a  letter  on  her  breakfast 
tray,  her  own  to  Mrs.  Slaterlee  at  the  Hotel  Meurice  re- 
turned with  the  statement  that  the  addressee  was  no  longer 
a  guest  and  had  left  no  forwarding  address.  Helena  had 
not  thought  of  that  exigency  in  making  her  plans,  and  she 
did  not  know  what  bankers  Mrs.  Slaterlee  used.  There  was 
no  way  she  could  communicate  with  her  without  cabling  to 
the  President  of  Vassar  for  her  address.  For  a  moment 
she  was  sobered.  She  wondered  if  Madame  de  Lanel  had 
looked  at  the  mail  bag  that  morning  and  seen  her  letter,  or 
had  they  been  sorted  by  a  servant  ?  She  finished  her  break- 
fast, bathed  and  rose,  ready  for  a  walk.  She  needed  time 
to  think  but  on  her  return  at  noonday  she  would  have  some 
plan  of  procedure. 

Travelling  alone  in  Europe,  much  as  it  would  be  pro- 
hibited by  her  family  and  expose  her  to  conjecture  of  her 
friends,  was  at  least  a  lesser  evil  than  remaining  where  she 
was. 

Miss  Cass  passed  no  one  as  she  crossed  the  lower  hall, 
opened  the  house  door  and  stepped  out  on  the  dew-studded 
turf.  The  morning  was  still  cool  but  in  the  unbroken  blue 
above  she  recognised  a  threat  of  heat.  She  started  down 
the  drive,  lifting  her  skirt  above  the  tassels  of  sheep's  pars- 
ley and  milkweeds  that  grew  along  the  roadway.  There 
was  a  calmness  in  the  outlying  meadows  and  broken  woods 
which  made  her  present  annoyances  seem  impalpable,  re- 
mote, as  though  past  slights  had  been  largely  a  matter  of 
inverted  ego. 

She  had  come  to  a  turn  in  the  road  when  she  saw  a  man 
approaching  her  from  the  thicket  a  few  rods  ahead.  She 
stopped  short  surprised,  realising  there  was  something  fa- 
miliar in  the  broad  shoulders  and  heavy  build.  An  instant 
later  she  recognised  the  intruder  was  Mr.  Jordan  Buel. 


VI 

"NOT  so  tight  .  .  .  you're  choking  me.  .  .  .  Jordan,  stop 
kissing  for  a  moment  and  tell  me  how  you  got  here?  How 
did  you  know  where  I  was?" 

Mr.  Buel  did  not  release  her,  but  after  holding  her  in 
his  arms  for  a  few  minutes  his  passion  seemed  to  make  way 
for  more  coherence.  He  attempted  to  answer  her  ques- 
tions while  his  eyes  played  over  her  and  he  watched  her 
face  from  different  angles  as  an  expert  appraiser  views 
some  beautiful  object  of  intricate  workmanship. 

"I  followed  you,"  he  admitted  laconically. 

"You  mean  you  were  on  the  same  train  with  us  from 
Paris?" 

"Yes.    But  I  lost  you  at  Rennes." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  asked  the  guard  who  your  friends  were  but  he  didn't 
know  them.  Who  is  this  Frenchman?" 

"Never  mind  now.    Where  are  you  stopping?" 

"A  place  called  St.  Lo.  I've  sent  for  my  chauffeur  and 
I'm  there  with  the  car.  He's  down  the  road  further.  I 
came  up  the  drive  quietly  to  sort  of  investigate  on  my 
own." 

"You  great  big  boy !" 

"You  gave  the  old  lady  the  sack?  I  knew  you  had  a 
quarrel.  I  called  at  the  Meurice  next  morning  and  they  told 
me  you  had  left  for  Gare  Montparnasse.  That's  how  I  fol- 
lowed." 

He  crushed  her  hands  in  his. 

"Jordan,  you  hurt." 

"Where's  my  ring?" 

"Here,  in  my  blouse.     It's  on  a  ribbon." 

"Why  aren't  you  wearing  it?" 

"Because  it  looks  rather  out  of  place  here." 

54 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         55 

"Oh,  it  does." 

"Well,  I  haven't  told  Edith  I'm  engaged.  So  if  I  were 
suddenly  to  appear  with  it  on  it  would  attract  attention. 
As  it  is  I  am  considered  a  sort  of  adventuress.  At  least 
I  wear  it  when  I  am  alone  in  my  room." 

"Wear  it  now." 

Miss  Cass  obeyed  and  then  remarked : 

"I  know  you're  thinking  about  Monsieur  de  Lanel.  I 
haven't  refrained  from  wearing  it  because  I  didn't  want 
him  to  know  I'm  engaged,  so  don't  do  anything  so  stupid  as 
to  be  jealous.  I  have  difficulties  enough  as  it  is." 

"Difficulties  ?" 

It  occurred  to  her  that  Madame  de  Lanel  might  appear 
any  moment  in  the  lane  and  finding  her  in  the  arms  of  a 
stranger  would  be  sufficient  offence  for  permanent  expul- 
sion. With  this  in  mind  she  led  the  way  into  the  woods. 
Under  foot  was  an  accumulation  of  leaves  that  had  rotted, 
covering  the  ground  with  a  spongy  carpet  like  heavy 
pile.  Coarse  bracken  grew  thick  about  them  and  wild  ivy 
festooned  itself  from  limb  to  limb,  and  on  the  tree  stems 
were  attached  occasional  round  moles  of  vivid  leek-green 
moss.  When  they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  drive  Helena 
halted  and  after  a  glance  at  the  damp  ivy  and  her  perishable 
draperies,  as  though  deliberately  deciding  to  ruin  her  dress, 
she  seated  herself  on  the  ground. 

"I've  told  you  my  position,"  she  said  at  length.  "What  on 
earth  am  I  to  do?" 

Mr.  Buel  pondered  that. 

"I've  subscribed  to  the  Paris  edition  of  the  New  York 
Herald,"  she  went  on,  "and  I'm  following  the  arrivals  of 
every  hotel  to  see  if  someone  doesn't  come  along  that  I 
know  to  whom  I  may  attach  myself.  If  I  were  only  a  no- 
body or  past  the  marrying  age  it  wouldn't  matter,  but  I  am 
too  prominent  to  be  wandering  about  Europe  alone.  Haven't 
you  a  suggestion?" 

"Of  course.    Marry  me." 

"Here?  In  France?  Where  it  can't  be  done  inside  of 
two  months,  and  one  has  to  have  one's  birth  certificate 


56         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

vouched  for  by  the  American  Consul,  and  one's  parents' 
marriage  certificate  and  what  not.  ..." 

"Then  in  London  by  a  private  register." 

"No,  Jordan.  When  I  do  marry  you  it's  going  to  be  with 
my  family  about  me  and  all  the  evidences  of  respectability, 
not  after  the  manner  of  a  housemaid.  I'm  not  going  to 
spend  the  rest  of  my  life  explaining  why  I  did  it.  I've 
seen  the  results  of  that  before.  You  and  I  are  not  going 
to  begin  life  under  a  cloud." 

Then  following  a  moment's  silence  she  sprang  up. 

"Jordan,  I've  an  idea.  I'll  return  to  the  house  now  and 
you  drive  up  in  a  few  minutes  in  your  car  and  well  meet 
before  Edith's  eyes  as  though  for  the  first  time  to-day.  I 
shall  introduce  you  as  a  family  friend  from  America  and 
you  will  begin  an  immediate  flirtation  wit!1  her.  She  will 
be  so  flattered  she  will  endure  me  for  a  week  or  so  simply 
for  the  satisfaction  of  making  me  look  ridiculous  in  youi 
eyes.  In  the  meantime  something  will  turn  up  for  me  as 
a  way  out.  Promise  to  ignore  me.  The  entire  success  de- 
pends upon  that." 

"Ill  do  my  best,"  he  agreed. 

Helena  turned  abruptly,  left  him  and  made  her  way  back 
to  the  drive.  Reaching  the  house,  she  entered  the  music 
room  where  Madame  de  Lanel  was  engaged  above  her 
tapestry  frame  in  an  attempt  to  perfect  herself  in  the  arts 
of  a  French  gentlewoman.  A  moment  later  a  motor  car 
was  heard  outside.  With  elaborate  unconcern  Miss  Cass 
glanced  through  the  windows  and  felt  a  quickening  of  satis- 
faction as  she  noted  the  perfection  of  the  machine  at  the 
door.  Then  she  exclaimed : 

"Why,  it's  Mr.  Buel!" 

He  entered  presently  and  she  extended  her  hand,  re- 
marking : 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you.  When  did  you  come  ?  I  want  you 
and  Madame  de  Lanel  to  meet." 

She  watched  the  introduction  with  trepidation,  aware  of 
a  certain  inelastic  quality  of  mind  which  characterised  Mr. 
Buel  and  which  made  it  unlikely  that  he  could  put  through 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         57 

their  intriguing  with  any  degree  of  success.  His  eyes 
turned  toward  Madame  de  Lanel  a  second  time,  and  he 
exclaimed  impulsively: 

"This  is  a  pleasure." 

Miss  Cass  saw  a  tinge  of  colour  flush  the  woman's  cheek 
for  a  moment,  as  he  continued  to  press  her  hand  and 
Helena  realised  that  she  had  misjudged  the  potency  of  the 
mere  masculine  unit.  Mr.  Buel's  clumsy  efforts  at  flattery 
had  been  too  pleasing  for  Edith  to  doubt  their  genuineness. 
After  all,  she  mused,  as  she  watched  the  two  engaged  in  a 
somewhat  furtive  conversation  across  the  room,  nothing 
could  be  more  deleterious  to  character  than  living  in  an  at- 
mosphere where  the  truth  was  always  under  suspicion. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  recognised  a  glint  of  anger  in 
Edith's  eyes  and  wondered  what  Mr.  Buel  had  done  to 
occasion  it.  She  rose  and  selected  a  chair  nearer  to  them, 
thinking  to  include  herself  in  their  remarks,  fearing  Jor- 
dan's zealousness  might  overdo  the  situation.  She  could 
see  Madame  de  Lanel's  manner  was  openly  hostile  and 
seemed  to  predicate  immediate  disaster.  Her  eyes  were  fast- 
ened upon  Helena  where  she  sat  before  her,  her  hands  rest- 
ing on  the  arms  of  her  chair.  Instantly  she  realised  what 
had  happened.  In  her  hurried  return  to  the  house  she 
had  forgotten  to  remove  the  preposterous  ring.  The  nav- 
ette-shaped  diamond  glittering  on  the  third  finger  of  her 
left  hand  had  caught  Madame  de  Lanel's  attention,  and  her 
shrewd  mind  had  deducted  something  very  like  the  truth. 
Mr.  Buel  was  the  girl's  fiance  and  was  attempting  to  claim 
the  attention  of  her  hostess  in  order  to  become  a  welcome 
guest.  The  divination  of  a  plot  between  them  enraged 
her,  so  that  when  she  asked  him  if  he  would  remain  to 
luncheon  it  was  with  such  truculence  of  manner  that  he 
hastily  declined. 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late,"  he  remarked  as  he  rose, 
following  her  example.  "It  took  longer  to  motor  here 
from  St.  Lo  than  I  realised.  Can't  we  have  a  picnic  some 
day  this  week?  You  and  Miss  Cass,  Monsieur  de  Lanel 
and  myself.  How  would  to-morrow  be?  One  can  make 


$8         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

the  trip  from  here  to  Mount  St.  Michael  in  my  car,  my 
chauffeur  says,  in  something  over  two  hours,  and  I  be- 
lieve there's  rather  a  famous  inn  there  for  lunch." 

"Unfortunately  my  husband  is  quite  an  invalid  this 
summer,  so  that  I  shall  have  to  decline  for  Tristram.  He 
would  find  the  trip  too  tiring." 

"But  you  and  Miss  Cass  will  accept?" 

"I'm  needed  here,  but  don't  let  me  in  any  way  hinder 
your  plans." 

"Naturally  I  wouldn't  think  of  going  without  you,  Edith," 
Helena  replied. 

"And  why  not?" 

"Because  little  as  you  may  suspect  it,  I  have  some  regard 
for  the  proprieties  myself.  And  in  such  things  one  is 
rather  more  particular  in  France  than  anywhere  else." 

"But  you  are  not  French,  so  what  possible  difference  does 
that  make?  You  are  an  American  and  your  countrywomen 
are  privileged  characters  here.  They  can  do  the  most  amaz- 
ing things  without  causing  the  slightest  comment.  And  then 
again  it  isn't  as  though  you  knew  anyone  or  had  a  position 
to  maintain  in  France.  You're  a  stranger,  a  tourist,  so  why 
shouldn't  you  do  as  you  please?  You  are  foolish  to  refuse 
for  such  reasons  if  you  wish  to  go.  I'm  sorry  you  won't 
stay  to  luncheon,  Mr.  Buel.  You'll  excuse  me." 

As  she  spoke  the  last  words  she  left  the  room  to  cross 
the  hall  and  tap  on  the  door  of  Monsieur  de  Lanel's  study. 

"I've  simply  got  her  mad.  My  work  must  have  been 
pretty  lumpy." 

"Hush!" 

"Will  you  come  to-morrow?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"I  can't  see  any  reason.     At  what  time?" 

"Be  here  at  eleven  o'clock.    And  now  go." 

The  arrangements  were  made  and  agreed  to  as  though 
the  picnic  were  a  conspiracy.  And  the  next  morning, 
prompt  to  the  fraction  of  a  minute,  the  cut-out  snorting  like 
some  wild  beast  to  escape  capture,  the  long,  low  swung  car 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         59 

bounded  up  the  drive  and  remained  purring  while  Helena 
came  out  of  the  house  and  was  handed  in. 

She  thought,  as  she  took  her  seat  beside  him,  that  she 
had  never  seen  him  look  so  happy,  or  his  great  frame 
of  such  immense  proportions  as  in  his  flannels. 

"How  are  things  this  morning?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  seen  her.  I  searched  the  house 
over  before  leaving  to  say  good-bye  but  Edith  is  always 
inaccessible.  Marie  said  she  was  not  in  her  room,  so  I 
suppose  she  was  hiding." 

"Let's  forget  her  for  one  day." 

And  then  the  car  took  the  decline  as  though  volplaning 
as  it  slid  down  the  long  stretch,  not  slackening  in  its  speed 
until  they  approached  the  turn  where  it  joined  the  country 
road. 

"I  had  forgotten  there  was  such  a  sensation  left  in  the 
world.  I  will  never  be  satisfied  to  do  anything  slowly 
again.  Your  car's  a  darling." 

"Think  of  the  good  times  you've  missed!" 

She  put  both  hands  to  her  head  to  fasten  more  securely 
the  little  burnt  straw  hat  she  was  wearing,  and  to  restrain 
her  ballooning  veil  behind  her.  She  was  smiling  now,  her 
eyes  a-dance,  her  lips  parted  showing  a  row  of  white  teeth, 
small,  even  and  sharp  as  cuttle  fish.  Mr.  Buel  stooped  sud- 
denly, caught  her  tight  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"Please." 

"Well,  I've  wanted  to  do  that  ever  since  I've  got  into  the 
car." 

"Suppose  the  chauffeur  were  to  turn  around?" 

"He  has  instructions  to  keep  his  eyes  on  the  road  ahead. 
That's  why  I'm  not  driving." 

"  I  am  glad  I  came." 

Mr.  Buel  laughed ;  he  was  holding  her  hand. 

"Familiarity  breeds  contentment,"  he  agreed. 

Fields  spread  out  beside  them  and  then  seemed  to  dis- 
solve in  their  flight.  To  Helena  it  appeared  that  the  car 
was  not  moving,  so  even  was  their  progress  that  it  seemed 
more  reasonable  that  the  long  white  ribbon  of  the  road  was 


60        SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

retreating  under  their  wheels.  Although  the  heat  was  al- 
ready intense  their  speed  created  its  own  temperature.  They 
passed  motorists  headed  for  Rennes  like  shadows,  and  at 
such  times  they  sat  rigidly  apart  from  each  other. 

They  slackened  their  pace  while  passing  through  the 
town  of  Contances,  with  its  blistering  white  walls  and  only 
occasional  shade  and  were  quickening  along  an  open  stretch 
of  road  when  the  forward  wheel  of  the  car  struck  a  broken 
bottle,  unnoticed  in  the  dust.  A  report  like  a  pistol  shot 
followed,  the  car  lurched  drunkenly  from  side  to  side  and 
was  brought  to  a  standstill  by  the  edge  of  the  road.  Helena 
and  Mr.  Buel  remained  in  their  seats  while  a  new  tire  was 
substituted,  fanning  themselves  against  choking  dust  and 
unremitting  heat.  No  one  passed  them  and  in  the  deserted 
country  there  was  no  sound  but  the  ominous  rattle  of  lo- 
custs. 

At  length  once  more  in  progress  they  continued  with 
greater  caution  through  the  villages  of  Folligny  and  Hage- 
Pasner.  But  having  been  delayed  it  was  after  one  o'clock 
when  they  drew  into  Avranches  and  Mr.  Buel  ordered  the 
chauffeur  to  stop  on  the  terrace  where  they  had  their  first 
uninterrupted  view  of  Mount  St.  Michael.  The  island  lay 
before  them  separated  from  the  mainland  by  smooth  flats 
laid  bare  by  receding  tides,  St.  Michael  itself  connected  by 
a  causeway.  It  looked  oddly  as  though  an  entire  mediaeval 
city  had  been  drowned  in  the  channel  and  only  this  emi- 
nence had  risen  above  the  waters,  its  perpendicular  sides 
crowded  with  huddled  tile  roofs  and  spires.  It  was  at  once 
as  imaginative  and  unreal  as  a  Dore. 

As  the  car  remained  unprotected  from  the  sun  the  heat 
blew  over  them  like  a  breath  from  a  furnace.  At  the  rear 
of  the  hotel  were  unoccupied  cars  and  within  the  d'Angle- 
terre  came  the  clatter  of  dishes  of  innumerable  trippers 
being  served. 

"You'd  rather  lunch  here,"  he  said,  "than  wait  till  we 
reach  the  island.  Our  being  late  is  going  to  make  our  time 
very  limited." 

"Then  let's  go  on.    I  am  starved,"  Helena  admitted,  "but 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         61 

it  looks  so  picturesque  I  can  hold  out  ten  minutes  longer, 
and  it  can't  be  over  half  a  mile  away." 

They  descended  the  height  which  skirted  the  Bay  and 
were  about  to  run  onto  the  causeway  when  a  returning  car 
signalled  wildly.  Mr.  Buel  saw  that  the  occupants  were 
countrymen  of  his  and  instructed  the  chauffeur  to  see  what 
they  wanted.  He  returned  in  a  moment  with  the  informa- 
tion that  the  causeway  had  broken  down  and  no  car  could 
get  across. 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  walk.  That's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion." 

A  French  labourer  was  passing  them,  and  as  Mr.  Buel  ad- 
mired Miss  Cass's  linguistic  facilities  he  suggested  she  ask 
him  to  confirm  the  report.  After  the  man's  volubility  and 
gesticulations  had  subsided  she  turned  to  her  fiance. 

"He  says  it  was  wrecked  in  the  storm  here  last  week. 
The  second  time  it  has  given  away  in  over  thirty  years,  but 
they  think  in  two  or  three  days  to  have  it  restored.  In  the 
meantime  no  car  can  get  over." 

The  chauffeur  having  heard  the  reply  now  started  the 
motor  running  slowly  on  its  course. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Williams  ?" 

"I  can  make  it,  sir,  if  you  are  willing  I  should  try." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Across  the  sand." 

"That's  quicksand.  You  can't  go  that  way.  It's  dan- 
gerous. I've  read  about  it." 

"You  see  there  are  fishermen.  If  they  can  get  there  on 
two  feet,  I  can  get  there  in  this  car.  And  there's  a 
woman  washing  in  a  stream.  I  can  do  what  any  woman 
can." 

They  looked  for  a  moment  fascinated  by  the  great  ex- 
panse of  shining  sand,  upon  which  the  tides  had  left 
tangled  skeins  of  seaweed  and  grass,  bits  of  shell  and  dead 
crabs. 

"How  can  you  get  down  there  ?" 

"I  see  a  place  further  on." 

"It's  up  to  you,  Helena.    Are  you  afraid?" 


62         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"Afraid.  Of  course  not.  I'm  only  thinking  of  the  ma- 
chine." 

"Hang  the  machine.  All  right,  Williams.  Drive  carefully." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Then  before  they  realised  what  he  intended  doing,  the 
car  had  turned  abruptly,  backed  and  facing  Mount  St. 
Michael  was  driven  at  full  speed  off  the  embankment. 
They  had  a  moment  of  terror  in  which  Buel  dragged  her 
into  his  arms  and  she  covered  her  eyes  as  the  car  flew 
through  space  and  then  landing  on  the  sand  began  a  des- 
perate race  across  the  flats. 

The  moist  sand  shone  like  a  mirror,  but  above  the  purr 
of  the  car  they  heard  the  sucking  of  it  on  the  tires  like 
hungry  lips,  in  the  treacherous  seeping  and  bubbling  be- 
neath them.  Fishermen  watched  their  crazy  flight.  La- 
bourers at  work  on  the  causeway  whistled  and  shouted  to 
them.  But  the  car  sped  on  and  the  chauffeur  never  lifted 
his  head  to  answer  the  clamour.  He  bent  over  the  wheel,  his 
eyes  watching  through  the  glass  every  inch  of  the  track 
before  them.  He  noticed  every  depression  in  the  sand, 
every  hillock,  as  he  guided  them  across  and  drew  them  up 
breathless,  thrilled,  at  the  foot  of  the  wall  which  surrounds 
the  island  rock. 

"What  a  ride,"  Helena  exclaimed. 

As  she  looked  back  she  saw  that  the  wheels  had  sunken 
deeper  than  they  realised  and  they  had  taken  a  greater 
chance  than  they  knew.  A  number  of  idlers  had  come 
running  to  the  edge  of  the  wall  to  watch  the  adventurers. 

One  of  them  exclaimed  that  this  was  the  first  car  to 
cross  the  sand.  And  upon  Helena's  translating  the  remark 
Mr.  Buel  informed  the  inscrutable  chauffeur,  now  busily 
examining  his  radiator. 

"That's  what  I  thought,  sir,"  he  answered  succinctly. 

"Be  here,  ready  and  waiting  for  us,  Williams,  in  an 
hour  and  a  half.  Now  go  up  to  the  Hotel  Poulard  and 
get  a  good  lunch." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Helena  and  Mr.  Buel,  surrounded  by  the  curious  and  ad- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         63 

miring,  made  the  ascent  up  the  steep,  tortuous  street  to 
the  flagged  entrance  of  the  inn.  Here  Miss  Cass  absented 
herself  to  remove  all  travel  stains,  while  Mr.  Buel  ordered 
luncheon  served  under  a  pergola  hidden  in  creepers  which 
overhung  the  Bay. 

The  absence  of  tourists  who  had  perforce  remained  at 
Avranches,  added  curiosity  to  their  advent  and  the  few 
guests  received  the  strangers  with  wonder  and  speculation. 
Helena's  laughter  and  high  spirits  seemed  to  resonate  and 
their  relationship  was  soon  decided.  They  ate  heartily  the 
monies  marine es,  roast  chicken,  salad  and  omelette  souffle 
served  out  of  doors  with  the  sound  of  water  in  their  ears. 
Before  them  was  the  silhouette  of  the  mainland,  the  town 
blurred  by  heat  haze  under  a  sky  of  scurrying  masses  of 
cumulous  cloud. 

"Come!  We  mustn't  waste  another  minute  here  if  you 
want  to  look  about  the  island  before  we  leave,"  Mr.  Buel 
said  at  last. 

And  so  reluctantly  they  made  their  way  up  the  steps  to 
the  buttressed  abbey  which  crowns  the  rock.  They  had 
hoped  to  elude  the  attention  of  a  too  persistent  guide  but 
he  was  waiting  for  them  and  pulled  open  the  heavy  door  as 
they  approached.  They  remained  unmindful  to  the  history 
of  its  destruction  and  restoration  and  the  usual  anecdotes. 
But  when  he  lighted  a  candle  to  show  them  the  dungeons 
beneath  the  monastery,  Mr.  Buel  betrayed  his  first  real 
interest. 

"I  want  to  see  those,"  he  said  with  genuine  enthusiasm. 

They  were  led  into  a  dark  corridor;  down  a  flight  of 
steep  stairs.  Allowing  the  guide  to  precede  them,  he 
grasped  her  in  his  arms  with  such  violence  he  all  but  lifted 
her  off  her  feet. 

"Jordan!" 

"What's  the  matter?    Have  I  hurt  you?" 

"No.    Not  hurt  exactly,  but  .  .  ." 

"But  what?" 

"You  shouldn't  do  that." 

"Why  not?" 


64         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

He  was  kissing  her  now,  but  she  managed  to  break  away 
from  him  as  the  guide  returned. 

"You  can  go  on,  Alles — if  we  want  to  know  anything 
we'll  call  you  back.  Comprenez?" 

"Parfaitement,  monsieur. 

And  the  guide  continued  ahead  with  the  candle,  leaving 
them  in  almost  total  darkness. 

"It  was  for  a  moment  like  this  that  I  prepared  the  entire 
trip,"  Mr.  Buel  explained. 

"But  it  wouldn't  have  been  possible  with  Edith  along." 

"I  should  have  got  rid  of  her  in  some  way.  Thank  God, 
she  didn't  come.  Nell,  are  you  always  going  to  love  me  ?" 

"How  do  I  know?" 

"You're  not  a  bit  reassuring." 

"I  really  want  to  see  the  rest  of  these  dungeons." 

And  later,  as  they  passed  a  deep  subterranean  entrance 
to  a  lower  tier  they  stood  looking  into  the  nether  darkness 
breathing  the  damp,  earthy  smell.  The  guide  had  returned 
to  them,  his  candle  half  consumed.  They  had  retraced  their 
steps  and  were  about  to  mount  the  rough  hewn  stairs  which 
led  back  to  the  body  of  the  abbey,  when  from  overhead 
there  came  a  deafening  crash. 

They  stopped  in  their  ascent.  The  explosion  was  so 
loud  it  seemed  as  though  the  monastery  itself  was  bursting 
above  their  heads. 

"What  was  that?" 

"He  says  it's  thunder,"  Helena  answered,  as  the  guide 
continued  to  mount. 

"You  mean  it's  a  storm?" 

"Oui,  monsieur." 

As  he  extinguished  the  candle  and  pulled  open  the  door 
they  saw  the  realisation  of  his  words.  The  sinuous  alley 
was  black  and  rain  was  falling  like  a  downpour  of  steel 
needles.  The  little  footway  ran  with  water. 

Mr.  Buel  grasped  Helena's  arm  with  a  grip  that  hurt. 

"It  means  run,"  he  cried. 

Before  she  knew  it  he  was  propelling  her  down  the 
steep  steps.  She  was  wearing  high-heeled,  unserviceable 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         65 

snoes  in  which  she  slipped  and  stumbled  in  her  mad  descent, 
but  he  did  not  release  his  hold  or  slacken  his  pace.  In  the 
haste  and  semi-darkness  she  could  not  see  where  her  next 
step  would  fall. 

Suddenly  a  skeleton  ribbed  with  lightning  appeared 
against  the  clouds,  shook  its  fist  defiantly,  passed  a  white 
shadow  over  all  the  darkness,  and  vanished  leaving  a 
deafening  discharge  of  thunder  in  their  ears. 

As  they  reached  the  wall  they  saw  the  car  in  its  place,  im- 
patient, throbbing  to  be  off.  The  bonnet  was  up,  their 
chauffeur  in  his  seat,  his  cap  pulled  over  his  eyes,  his  bare 
hands  on  the  wheel.  With  Helena  within  and  Mr.  Bud's 
foot  on  the  running  board  he  gave  the  directions. 

"Go  like  the  devil !"  was  all  he  said. 

The  motor  car,  like  some  trained  animal  of  bone  and 
sinew,  sprang  forward.  It  shot  along  the  sand,  while 
another  clap  of  thunder  passed  over  their  heads.  Under 
the  bonnet  Mr.  Buel  did  not  speak.  Helena's  first  intima- 
tion of  danger  was  when  a  flash  of  lightning  revealed  his 
face  to  her.  She  saw  it  was  grey  with  stiff  lips. 

A  sound  had  suddenly  risen  as  though  conjured  up  by 
magic  and  she  saw  all  about  them  the  incoming  tide.  She 
remembered  reading  that  the  tide  which  covered  the  flats 
half  the  time,  separating  Mount  St.  Michael  from  the  main- 
land, could  exceed  galloping  horses.  But  she  had  never 
supposed  it  was  anything  like  this.  Already  it  had  blotted 
out  the  sand  in  front.  It  passed  like  a  sponge  over  their 
tracks  behind.  It  was  frothing,  gurgling;  waves  like  mon- 
sters were  angrily  showing  their  teeth.  They  had  gone  only 
a  quarter  of  the  distance  although  the  car  was  geared  to 
the  third  speed.  The  water  was  close  to  the  running  board. 
In  a  moment  the  tool  chest  would  be  submerged. 

"Turn  back !    Turn  back !"  Mr.  Buel  cried  hoarsely. 

But  the  car  continued  on. 

The  chauffeur  had  flashed  on  the  searchlights.  Over  the 
angry  surf  risen  menacingly,  they  played.  This  wall,  glis- 
tening, luminous,  which  blocked  them,  was  like  some  black 
volcanic  action.  And  then  its  stiffness  broke,  surging  and 


66         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

impalpable,  only  to  rise  again  in  terrifying  assault.  Helena 
realised  the  danger,  but  she  did  not  speak.  She  could  not 
make  herself  heard  above  the  storm.  She  was  horror- 
stricken  by  its  violence.  For  a  second  she  closed  her  eyes 
so  as  not  to  see  its  imminence  intensified  by  the  light  ahead. 
And  at  that  moment  the  light  was  cut  off. 

She  realised  at  once  what  had  happened.  The  storage 
battery  just  above  the  running  board  had  been  reached. 
The  water  had  risen  to  that  point  depriving  them  of  light. 
The  storm,  the  surrounding  water,  seemed  elements  all  at 
once  removed  from  her.  Her  thoughts  clung  persistently 
to  all  the  more  discreditable  moments  in  her  life.  She  was 
not  thinking  of  her  peril  nor  of  her  chances  of  escape,  nor 
yet  of  the  man  beside  her,  but  of  her  mother  at  home.  She 
was  wishing  she  might  have  been  the  means  of  bringing 
her  greater  comfort.  That  she  had  at  all  times  shown  Annis 
as  much  consideration  as  it  was  in  her  power  to  do.  But 
these  thoughts  were  torn  aside. 

"Turn  back,  damn  you !  Turn  back !  Don't  you  see  what 
you're  doing!" 

The  car  was  making  less  headway.  The  hind  wheels 
failing  of  any  grip  revolved  uselessly,  churning  water. 
Flashes  of  lightning  followed  each  other  so  as  to  be  al- 
most continuous.  For  the  first  time  Helena  noticed  that 
the  causeway  seemed  to  be  moving  with  them.  She  had 
selected  a  portion  of  broken  masonry  she  could  distinguish 
ahead  of  them.  After  several  seconds  they  were  not  per- 
ceptibly nearer  to  it. 

"Go  back!    Do  you  hear  me?    Or  by  God  I'll  ..." 

A  report  of  thunder  came  so  close  that  she  fancied  the 
causeway  had  been  hit. 

All  at  once  the  chauffeur  realised  his  mistake.  He  had  at- 
tempted the  impossible.  He  stopped  the  car.  For  an  instant 
he  hesitated,  thinking  to  turn.  Then  he  realised  that  could 
not  be  done.  He  reversed  and  they  backed  toward  the 
island  on  first  speed.  The  floor  boards  were  wet.  The 
water  was  now  spouting  up  through  the  clutch.  There  was 
a  great  sputtering  and  pulsing  from  the  engine.  They  con- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         67 

tinued  to  back  seemingly  an  inch  at  a  time.  Their  progress 
was  almost  imperceptible,  and  then  ceased. 

The  car  under  them  was  fighting  like  a  creature  being 
strangled.  Its  whole  body  quivered  for  breath.  It  made 
heroic  attempts  to  move.  The  water  had  only  to  rise  a  few 
inches  more  and  they  were  powerless.  If  it  reached  the 
ignition  generator  the  engine  would  go  cold.  Nothing  could 
help  them  then.  It  was  like  watching  something  die. 

She  looked  at  her  lover's  face,  fascinated  by  the  terror 
of  it  She  wondered  if  she  looked  like  that.  He  was  afraid 
for  her  sake.  But  she  was  not  afraid.  If  this  were  death 
she  knew  she  would  not  shame  herself  in  any  paroxysm  of 
fear. 

It  seemed  minutes  later  that  the  machine  was  once  more 
moving.  They  were  creeping  through  water  that  hit  against 
the  side  of  the  car  audibly.  She  wondered  if  Williams,  un~ 
able  to  see  where  he  was  going,  had  not  lost  all  sense  of 
direction.  She  realised  suddenly  they  could  not  make  it. 
Their  progress  was  a  matter  of  inches. 

Again  they  stopped.  The  carburetor  or  coils  had  been 
reached.  Some  vital  organ  was  paralysed.  She  felt  thft 
water  on  the  floor  of  the  car  but  did  not  think  to  lift  her 
feet.  Even  though  he  could  get  the  engine  going  she  knew 
it  would  be  useless.  .  .  .  The  next  wave  washed  over  tha 
door,  drenching  her.  The  car  settled.  She  realised  what 
that  meant.  They  had  struck  the  quicksand. 

Helena  was  amazed  that  she  could  no  longer  distinguish 
anything.  The  rain  was  coming  down  in  a  curtain  of  vio- 
lence that  blinded  all  view  from  them.  It  was  beating  in 
under  the  bonnet.  Buel  tore  open  the  door,  letting  in  a 
wash  of  water. 

"We've  got  to  swim,"  he  cried  in  her  face.  "Don't  let  your 
feet  touch  bottom,  or  it's  death." 

He  did  not  pronounce  the  more  dreaded  word,  but  she 
understood.  He  was  at  her  side,  on  the  running  board,  then 
struck  out.  She  followed  him.  The  cold  water  caught  her 
breath  as  she  laid  herself  upon  it  and  began  an  impeded 
stroke.  Each  wave  broke  over  her  face.  She  persevered 


68         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

for  several  minutes.  She  felt  she  was  stationary.  She- 
was  a  good  swimmer  and  not  tired.  She  reminded  herself 
it  was  a  long  distance  and  she  was  using  too  much  effort. 
She  curbed  nervousness.  Her  stroke  became  even,  methodi- 
cal. Her  arms  were  tired.  It  wasn't  fancy  or  terror.  She 
was  weighted  with  clothes.  She  knew  suddenly  she  had 
reached  almost  her  capacity.  She  was  without  breath  to  call. 

At  that  moment  a  hand  was  thrust  forcibly  under  her 
chin.  .  .  .  And  she  continued  as  in  a  dream.  Movements 
of  arms  and  feet  .  .  .  slowly  .  .  .  again  .  .  .  again  .  .  . 
again.  Later  an  arm  encircled  her  waist.  She  relaxed  en- 
tirely, gave  up.  At  length  she  was  aware  the  struggle  was 
over.  She  opened  her  eyes.  Buel's  face  was  above  hers. 
He  was  carrying  her  in  his  arms,  his  feet  on  the  ground. 
The  water  was  now  only  breast  high.  Before  them  were 
the  lights  of  the  island.  She  smiled.  Vaguely  she  realised 
what  he  had  done,  but  she  was  too  exhausted  for  grati- 
tude. Experiencing  a  faint  sense  of  well-being  she  closed 
them  again  and  let  her  head  sink  toward  him. 

Never  was  there  such  strength  in  the  world,  she  thought, 
detached,  fragmentary,  as  she  resigned  herself  to  his  care. 
She  was  conscious  of  the  sinew  of  his  arms  through  his 
wet  sleeves.  He  continued  to  bear  her  dead  weight  against 
the  surge  of  water.  Then  nothing  seemed  to  matter  and 
she  was  at  rest. 

Reaching  shore  he  laid  her  on  the  rocks  and  called  to  the 
chauffeur.  He  continued  to  call.  There  was  no  answer.  Then 
he  went  back,  disappearing  in  the  rain.  She  heard  more 
shouting.  He  was  giving  direction  to  the  miserable  Williams 
to  get  men  to  drag  the  car  out  of  the  water  with  ropes. 

She  was  cold  now.  She  had  managed  to  rise.  Her  teeth 
were  chattering. 

"Shall  we  walk  across,"  she  asked,  as  he  reached  her  side. 

"Walk?    You  must  be  crazy.    The  causeway  isn't  safe." 

"Then  how  am  I  going  to  get  back  ?" 

Mr.  Buel  looked  at  the  eddying  water  churning  beneath 
them  like  boiling  milk  before  he  answered: 

"You  can't  get  back  to-night." 


VII 

IT  was  past  the  noon  hour  next  day  when  Miss  Gass 
leapt  from  Mr.  Buel's  car  and  running  across  the  turf, 
mounted  the  verandah  steps  and  opened  the  house  door. 
Madame  de  Lanel  was  probably  in  the  music  room,  she  con- 
cluded, as  she  found  the  library  deserted.  Since  there  was 
no  one  there,  however,  she  hesitated  before  continuing  her 
investigations. 

She  had  left  her  fiance  with  scant  ceremony,  vetoing  his 
suggestion  that  he  assist  her  with  her  explanation  to  her 
host  and  hostess.  She  knew  she  was  about  to  face  an 
unpleasant  quarter  of  an  hour ;  the  facts  were  not  plausible, 
but  at  least  she  wished  to  tell  her  own  story  in  her  own 
way. 

She  would  recount  it  breathlessly,  she  decided,  attempt- 
ing to  make  light  of  no  detail.  But  since  she  would  as- 
sure them  that  the  contretemps  had  resulted  in  no  evil  con- 
sequences as  they  had  seen  no  one  whom  they  knew  and 
had  made  use  of  fictitious  names,  all  was  well.  She  rang 
for  the  parlour-maid  and  after  some  detention  that  func- 
tionary appeared. 

In  reply  to  Miss  Cass's  question  she  was  informed  that 
'Monsieur  'dame'  had  driven  to  Rennes  and  would  not  re- 
turn before  evening.  Helena's  first  sensation  was  one  of 
disappointment.  She  had  rehearsed  the  story  and  wished 
to  recount  it  while  it  was  still  fresh.  All  its  ingeniousness 
would  be  lost  in  a  delay  of  five  hours.  It  would  appear 
stupid  and  sordid  enough  when  stripped  of  her  teHing  as 
an  occurrence  just  passed.  The  essentials  and  effects 
seemed  already  to  have  eluded  her,  so  that  what  was  in- 
tended to  be  passed  off  as  a  prank  and  escapade,  now  began 
to  appear  ugly  and  sinister. 

Helena  went  to  her  room,  removed  her  hat  and  looked 

69 


7o         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

steadfastly  in  the  mirror  at  her  reflection.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments of  silent  scrutiny  she  decided  that  she  was  glad 
they  were  away.  Her  clothes  had  become  drenched  in  the 
storm  and  were  now  discoloured  and  shapeless.  The  sleeve 
of  her  chiffon  blouse  had  been  torn  by  Mr.  Buel  when  he 
had  attempted  to  wrest  her  from  the  machine.  Her  face 
was  haggard  after  a  sleepless  night  and  dark  rings  encircled 
her  eyes. 

She  bathed,  brushed  her  hair,  threw  herself  down  upon 
her  bed  and  at  length  slept  from  exhaustion.  When  she 
awoke  the  afternoon  was  over.  Recoiffed,  she  selected  a 
dinner  dress  which  suited  her  and  went  downstairs  to  await 
the  arrival  of  the  de  Lanels.  Taking  a  volume  of  Chateau- 
briand from  the  bookshelves  she  settled  herself  in  a  deep 
chair  and  pretended  to  read.  She  wished  to  look  casual 
and  since  she  was  living  in  the  Chateaubriand  country,  her 
choice  of  authors  was  not  an  infliction.  In  reality  the  book 
did  not  hold  her  attention,  for  she  was  rehearsing  her  story 
with  growing  uneasiness,  while  she  listened  for  carriage 
wheels. 

A  few  moments  later  dinner  was  announced  and  she  rose, 
crossed  the  hall,  crushing  any  hypersensitiveness  as  she 
stiffened  to  a  cooler  atmosphere.  The  Lanels  had  not  seen 
fit  to  send  her  any  message  of  their  arrival  and  she  was 
evidently  to  meet  them  at  table.  As  she  entered  the  dining 
room  she  saw  that  a  cover  had  been  laid  for  only  one. 
When  she  questioned  Baptiste,  the  valet-de-pied,  she  was 
told  the  hour  of  their  return  was  so  uncertain  she  was  not 
expected  to  delay  dinner. 

Suddenly  she  was  gripped  by  a  thought  which  shook  her. 
Suppose  the  Marquise  de  Lanel  refused  to  return  to  the 
chateau  so  long  as  she  remained  there?  The  very  idea 
was  like  the  pressure  of  ice  upon  her  brain.  She  attempted 
to  cast  off  any  such  foreboding  with  the  easy  sophistry 
that  there  were  limits  even  to  the  treachery  of  a  friend. 
Edith  wouldn't  stoop  to  any  such  disingenuous  methods. 
But,  as  the  thought  formed  in  her  mind,  she  found  herself 
totally  without  measure  to  gauge  her  hostess's  actions.  Her 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         71 

acquaintance  with  Miss  Doelger  in  the  past  had  been  lim- 
ited almost  entirely  to  that  lady's  protestions  on  paper.  Be- 
fore the  present  Marquise  de  Lanel's  predispositions  she 
was  helpless  in  any  effort  at  analysis. 

As  the  possible  result  of  any  such  act  amplified  itself, 
she  realised  how  complete  was  her  intrapment.  She  felt 
a  moment's  constriction  in  her  breathing.  She  had  supplied 
Madame  de  Lanel  with  an  escapade  which  the  woman 
could  shape  to  her  own  advantage.  The  wires  being  down 
she  had  been  unable  to  communicate  in  any  way  from  St. 
Michael.  Nor  was  it  surprising  that  Edith  was  not  dis- 
posed to  believe  the  facts  since  she  had  remained  away  all 
night.  It  was  annoying,  she  argued,  that  all  her  life  the 
most  untoward  circumstances  seemed  naturally  to  gravi- 
tate to  her. 

She  consulted  her  watch.  It  was  ten  o'clock.  She  put 
down  her  book  on  the  canape.  There  was  no  use  in  simu- 
lation now.  She  remained  rigid;  in  thought. 

Her  mind  went  back  to  what  had  very  likely  been  a  plan 
from  the  first.  Her  impatience  rose  at  her  credulity  in 
acceding  to  the  scheme  to  go  alone  with  Mr.  Buel.  Edith 
had  been  looking  for  the  means  of  evicting  her,  and  now 
she  had  supplied  her  with  the  necessary  evidence.  The 
woman's  construction  of  what  really  happened  would  be 
her  excuse  for  making  it  impossible  for  her  to  return  home 
until  her  guest  signified  her  intention  of  leaving. 

Following  the  meal,  eaten  alone,  she  returned  to  the 
library  and  the  pretence  of  her  book.  What  more  was  Edith 
planning  now  ?  And  what  was  to  follow  ?  That  their  de- 
lay was  intentional  she  knew,  but  just  what  form  her  hos- 
tess's incivility  would  take  she  could  not  forecast. 

At  length  her  thoughts  drifted  from  the  de  Lanels  back 
to  Jordan  Buel  and  the  hours  which  had  followed  their  dis- 
covery that  they  could  not  return  to  the  mainland  that 
night.  Back  at  the  inn  Mr.  Buel  had  registered  as  "William 
Jordan  and  Miss  Jordan,  New  York."  Supposedly  brother 
and  sister.  They  had  been  assigned  rooms  side  by  side. 
She  would  have  preferred  to  have  been  given  a  room  in  one 


72         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

of  their  dependencies,  but  could  not  ask  for  it  without 
arousing  suspicion.  And  so  she  had  gone  to  her  room,  re- 
moved her  clothes  and  lain  there  in  bed  while  her  own  gar- 
ments were  dried  before  the  great  oven  downstairs.  They 
had  been  rather  subdued  at  dinner  and  later,  the  rain  having 
ceased,  they  had  taken  a  short  walk  and  at  nine  thirty  she 
had  gone  upstairs  for  the  night.  For  a  long  time  she  re- 
mained musing.  When  she  thought  to  look  at  the  clock 
again  it  lacked  a  few  minutes  to  midnight. 

She  rose  abruptly,  went  into  the  hall,  opened  the  house 
door  and  stepped  out  onto  the  terrace.  The  stillness  of 
the  night  was  all-encompassing.  It  was  difficult  to  realise 
that  less  than  fifty  miles  away  a  storm  had  ravaged  the 
coast.  She  crossed  the  carriage-sweep  and  looked  down  the 
drive.  There  was  no  sign  of  an  approaching  vehicle. 
Above  the  stars  looked  small  and  lusterless  in  a  pale  sum- 
mer sky.  The  silence  on  her  return  was  cavernous.  There 
came  a  sudden  twitching  in  a  nearby  plane  tree.  She  sus- 
pected it  was  a  squirrel  she  had  attempted  to  make  friends 
with  a  few  days  before.  She  reascended  the  step  to  the 
terrace  and  walked  to  the  rear  of  the  chateau.  As  she  lin- 
gered there  she  noticed  a  light  in  the  stable  some  distance 
away  and  heard  a  cow's  dismal  moo. 

She  remained  standing,  her  mind  a  blank.  After  a  mo- 
ment she  was  conscious  she  was  not  alone.  Turning  she 
saw  that  Baptiste  was  waiting  at  a  respectful  distance. 
She  asked  if  there  was  anything  wrong  at  the  stable,  and 
he  replied  simply  that  he  suspected  that  one  of  the  cows 
was  calving. 

Miss  Cass  realised  suddenly  that  he  was  waiting  to  lock 
the  doors.  She  said  good-night  casually,  and  a  moment 
later  she  heard  him  closing  the  jalousies  as  she  climbed 
the  stairs  to  her  room. 

She  did  not  sleep  easily  that  night.  In  fact,  she  thought 
she  had  scarcely  closed  her  eyes  when,  opening  them,  she 
saw  the  sunlight,  and  realised  that  several  hours  had  been 
lost.  At  ten  she  rang  for  her  breakfast,  which  was  brought 
on  a  tray  to  her  bedside.  Miss  Cass  felt  she  was  more  or 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         73 

less  an  object  of  scrutiny  to  the  servants.  Glancing  up 
from  her  coffee  and  roll,  she  asked  if  Madame  would  ap- 
pear at  luncheon  downstairs.  It  was  as  near  a  direct  ques- 
tion as  she  cared  to  ask  if  they  had  returned  home.  But 
the  maid  discreetly  dropped  her  eyes  and  replied  that  she 
did  not  know. 

Miss  Cass  remained  in  her  room  all  morning.  It  was 
past  the  noon  hour  when,  descending  the  stairs,  she  heard 
someone  playing.  She  waited  irresolute  on  the  landing 
until  the  last  notes  of  the  Chaminade  etude  ended,  then 
with  her  features  under  control  she  entered  the  music 
room.  She  found  her  hostess's  manner  as  she  rose  from 
the  piano  scarcely  colder  or  more  prohibitory  than  usual, 
and  Helena  took  heart,  and  with  an  infectious  chuckle 
launched  into  her  explanation  of  her  absence.  She  felt  a 
purely  feminine  regret  that  Monsieur  de  Lanel  was  not 
there;  she  knew  instinctively  that  her  own  prepossessions 
would  incline  him  to  accept  her  story  favorably. 

"I  don't  know  what  you've  thought  of  me,  Edith,  unless 
you've  heard  of  the  storm.  But  it  couldn't  be  at  all  the 
same  thing  here  as  on  the  water.  The  causeway  was 
broken  and  we  couldn't  get  back.  It  was  annoying,  but 
what  could  we " 

"Please,  not  a  word,  here  is  Tristram." 

"But  I  insist!    I  must  explain." 

Miss  Cass  remained  flushed  but  impenitent. 

"It  isn't  necessary.  It  would  grieve  him,  and  if  you  wish 
me  to  speak  very  plainly,  it  would  shock  him  too.  French- 
men don't  look  upon  such  things  the  way  American  men  are 
taught  to  do.  And  for  myself  I  don't  care  to  hear  it.  You 
have  your  own  code  of  what  is  becoming  and  of  course  you 
must  live  up  to  that." 

No  further  reference  was  ever  made  to  her  night  at 
Mount  St.  Michael,  but  Miss  Cass  often  felt  that  Madame 
de  Lanel  had  supplied  a  different  story  to  her  husband. 
She  used  to  watch  his  eyes  follow  her  when  she  entered 
a  room,  and  experienced  a  curious  sensation  of  guilt,  but 
she  was  allowed  no  opportunity  to  reopen  the  subject. 


74         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Supposing  that  Helena  had  been  able  to  make  her  peace 
by  that  time,  Jordan  Buel  motored  over  from  St.  Lo  two 
days  later.  After  inquiring  to  see  the  two  ladies,  Madame 
de  Lanel  sent  down  word  she  was  not  at  home,  and  Miss 
Cass,  wishing  to  remove  all  thought  of  duplicity,  insisted 
upon  seeing  him  on  the  terrace.  She  remained  directly 
beneath  the  sitting-room  windows,  conscious  that  the  Mar- 
quise was  observing  them  from  behind  curtains.  She  was 
uncommunicative  to  a  degree,  and  did  not  raise  the  veil 
she  was  wearing.  Mr.  Buel  attempted  to  lighten  her  de- 
pression, but  the  word  was  not  vouchsafed  him  whereby 
they  could  reascend  to  the  ease  of  past  intercourse.  He 
saw  she  was  worried,  and  after  ten  minutes,  in  which  he 
had  been  unable  to  extract  anything  but  monosyllables  from 
her,  Miss  Cass  begged  him  to  leave,  so  as  not  to  compli- 
cate conditions  already  acute. 

"I've  got  to  leave  by  the  end  of  the  week,"  she  declared. 
"It  is  just  a  question  of  where  I  shall  go." 

After  the  snort  of  his  car  was  no  longer  heard  and  the 
querulous  sound  of  his  horn  died  away,  she  recalled  the 
recent  advent  of  the  calf  and  walked  idly  toward  the  stable. 
Her  host  had  taken  her  on  a  tour  of  inspection,  showing 
her  his  horses,  the  splendid  work-animals  and  the  bullocks 
in  the  paddock,  shortly  after  her  arrival.  This  attention 
had  been  more  the  result  of  seeming  to  apologize  for  Edith's 
hours  of  absenting  herself.  He  had  been  conscious  that 
their  guest  had  been  denied  the  usual  sources  of  entertain- 
ment, but  at  length  had  given  up  all  efforts  to  provide  for 
her  amusement,  since  it  was  a  duty  in  no  way  shared  by 
his  wife. 

Miss  Cass  entered  the  stables  feeling  that  she  knew  her 
way  about  them.  The  floor  of  the  carriage-house  was 
sanded  in  horticultural  and  zoological  patterns,  an  art  which 
was  the  delight  of  a  stable  helper.  Along  the  walls  behind 
glass  doors  hung  the  harness  for  the  various  traps,  all 
spotless,  nickel  and  silver  bits  gleaming.  She  made  her 
way  out  into  the  court,  where  beneath  the  stable  clock 
and  weather-vane  the  box  stalls  faced  each  other  in  a  wide 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         75 

rectangle.  Beyond  was  a  paddock  to  which  various  stalls 
had  access,  and,  passing  through  one,  where  the  half-door 
was  open,  she  found  a  stable  lad  laying  fresh  straw.  He 
told  her  in  his  strange  patois  that  the  calf  was  "out  yon- 
der." Against  the  bars  stood  the  cow,  her  pelt  cream 
colour  and  white  and  soft  to  Helena's  hand.  Her  great 
earnest  eyes  glowed  like  immense  garnets  and  in  their 
liquid  depths  Helena  saw  herself  reflected.  The  cow  re- 
garded her  a  moment  in  doubt  while  she  sniffed  at  her 
skirt,  then  exhaled  her  warm  breath,  fragrant  of  grass. 
The  calf  was  on  its  knees  beneath  its  mother  and  made 
petulant  sounds  because  the  teats  were  not  longaged  for 
its  convenience,  so  as  to  reach  them  without  rising.  Helena 
stooped  to  stroke  the  new-born  animal,  and  the  salf  took 
one  of  her  pink  fingers  in  its  mouth  and  attempted  to 
wring  sustenance  from  it. 

"Oh,  you  darling,"  she  exclaimed  aloud. 

When  she  arose  a  moment  later  she  noticed  that  the 
Marquis  was  an  observer.  He  was  dressed  in  riding 
clothes,  which  he  frequently  wore  all  day,  never  changing 
until  dinner.  He  was  observing  her  with  a  shade  more 
interest  than  he  had  ever  shown,  through  a  near-sighted, 
single  eye-glass. 

Miss  Cass,  who  accommodated  herself  to  country  life 
with  less  effort  than  the  average  Parisienne,  was  wearing 
a  dress  of  white  flannel,  deck  shoes  and  a  Homburg  hat. 
The  Marquis  was  aware  that  she  made  a  not  unattractive 
picture. 

"You  are  really  interested  in  cattle,  aren't  you  ?"  he  asked 
skeptically. 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  enjoy  the  usual  abysmal  ignorance  of 
the  American  woman,  but  I'm  really  interested  in  all  things 
— all  things,  but  one." 

"And  what  can  that  be?" 

"Human  nature!'' 

Monsieur  de  Lanel  smiled. 

"Why  that  point  of  view?" 


76         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"I'm  awful  tired  of  my  own  kind;  there's  something 
wonderful  in  the  loyalty  of  animals." 

She  continued  to  stroke  the  cow's  silken  hide.  The 
calf,  embarrassed  by  too  close  attention,  had  struggled  up 
insecurely  and  sidled  off,  as  though  on  stilts,  moving  un- 
steadily on  over-long,  stiff  legs. 

"And  people?  Why  these  aspersions  against  your  own 
countrywomen?  I  suppose  you  mean  them?  I've  found 
your  countrywomen  most  intelligent." 

"Of  course  Edith  is  an  exception,"  she  remarked  negli- 
gently. "But  we  are  amazingly  ignorant.  I  am  thinking 
only  of  the  fashionable  women  of  America.  Nous  ne  savons 
rien  de  rlen.  We  want  only  the  best  without  even  recog- 
nising it  when  we  see  it.  We  don't  know  art  or  music,  or 
even  pearls,  as  French  women  do.  We  don't  take  an  in- 
telligent interest  in  politics,  like  Englishwomen;  nor  do  we 
know  flowers  or  gardens.  We  keep  gardeners  to  tell  us 
the  names  of  the  blooms  in  our  own  greenhouses.  We 
don't  know  cattle,  although  the  greatest  herds  in  the  world 
are  in  America,  and  most  of  the  fortunes  in  the  West 
are  derived  from  them.  .  .  .  But — yes,  we  will  spend 
hours  discussing  the  construction  of  a  dress.  We  pride 
ourselves  upon  our  understanding  of  dress." 

"You  are  prejudiced  against  the  charm  of  vour  own 
ladies." 

Conscious  of  having  hit  off  the  frailties  of  her  hostess 
too  accurately,  she  sought  to  divert  his  attention, 

"Look,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  precious  baby  is  mixing  his 
front  legs  with  his  hind  ones." 

At  a  short  distance  all  four  legs  of  the  calf  had  become 
crossed  like  a  camp-chair  and  it  sent  up  a  little  quaver  of 
distress  to  its  mother.  But  the  cow  continued  placidly  to 
revolve  the  grass  in  its  mouth,  not  to  be  concerned  by  such 
puerilities.  And  the  calf,  suddenly  disentangling  its  legs, 
moved  a  little  nearer.  Later  returning  to  the  warm  ma- 
ternal flanks  it  pressed  its  head  against  its  mother's  udder 
and  closed  its  eyes  with  gratification. 


77 

Miss  Cass  and  de  Lanel  walked  away  to  the  other  end 
of  the  paddock. 

"Take  the  case  of  Bebe's  father,"  he  said,  and  she  thought 
he  made  use  of  the  petit  name  as  a  means  of  avoiding  the 
difficulty  in  pronouncing  the  "th"  in  Edith.  "He  is  quite  a 
celebrated  savant  in  America,  I  understand." 

"Savant."  She  repeated  the  word  blankly.  "He  made 
his  money  in  the  manufacture  of  starch." 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  Then  the  Marquis  was  at 
haste  to  continue: 

"Of  course  I  know  that." 

She  realised  in  a  moment  that  this  was  a  version  of  his 
father-in-law's  accumulation  which  he  had  never  heard 
before.  His  expression  of  disappointment  was  not  at  the 
source  of  their  fortune  but  at  Edith's  having  lied.  His 
argument  suddenly  lost  pith  and  he  remained  silent. 

They  were  aroused  a  moment  later  by  the  appearance  of 
Madame  de  Lanel.  Edith  had  effected  the  Parisienne's 
helplessness  in  matters  of  le  sport.  Ordinarily  she  satisfied 
her  passion  for  tennis  or  golf  by  strolling  over  well-trimmed 
turf,  carrying  a  racket  or  a  machie  with  a  necessaire  stocked 
with  a  mirror  and  make-up  requisites.  To-day  Madame 
de  Lanel  lifted  her  draperies  above  the  heavy  bedding  of 
straw  and  opened  the  half  door  with  the  use  of  two  im- 
maculate jewelled  fingers. 

"The  post  has  just  come,"  she  said.  "It  has  brought 
several  letters  for  you,  Tristram.  I  put  them  in  your 
study." 

Without  a  word  he  left  obediently  and  made  his  way 
back  to  the  chateau. 

The  Marquise  turned  to  survey  Helena. 

"What  were  you  talking  about?"  she  asked. 

For  a  moment  Miss  Cass  did  not  reply  and  the  two 
women  confronted  each  other  silently  as  though  measuring 
their  weapons. 

"We  were  speaking  of  the  patrician  qualities  of  certain 
cattle,"  she  answered. 

Madame  de  Lanel  smiled. 


78         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"I  am  glad  you  have  a  taste  in  common.  I'm  so  stupid 
about  the  stable,  and  now  that  the  groom  of  the  chambers 
is  away,  Tristram  has  no  one  to  talk  to  about  such  matters. 
I  know  you  don't  mind  my  saying  this.  It  is  sans  rancune, 
of  course." 

"Oh,  sans  rancune,  by  all  means." 

Madame  de  Lanel  raised  a  diminutive  square  of  scented 
mauve  lawn  to  her  nostrils  as  though  to  rid  her  of  any 
reminder  of  the  stable,  and  then  picked  her  way  back  as 
she  had  come. 

Miss  Cass  remained  in  the  paddock,  puzzled.  She  was 
unable  to  account  for  the  forbearance  in  Madame  de 
Lanel's  retort.  Ever  since  her  return  she  had  been  waiting 
for  some  form  of  punishment  that  was  being  withheld. 
She  had  hoped  to  face  her  flaying  the  next  morning  and 
have  it  over.  She  realised  suddenly  the  curiously  with- 
drawn manner  and  guarded  speech  of  the  Marquise  boded 
evil.  She  could  afford  to  do  her  guest  no  further  injury 
since  she  had  already  seen  to  that  the  night  she  spent  at 
Rennes.  Her  coup  was  launched.  And  she  was  waiting 
to  have  its  effect  reach  its  victim.  Nothing  else  could  ex- 
plain her  calm  eyes  and  compressed  lips.  She  was  waiting. 
At  the  thought  Helena's  fear  increased  because  the  sources 
of  detriment  were  unknown. 

She  had  told  Jordan  Buel  she  must  leave  by  the  end  of 
the  week.  Accordingly  on  the  tenth  day  following  her 
excursion  she  was  seated  in  her  room  repacking  her  trunk 
when  she  saw  a  carriage  coming  up  the  drive.  She  was  on 
her  knees  in  front  of  the  window  and  noticed  suddenly 
that  it  held  an  occupant  beside  the  coachman.  A  woman, 
but  not  the  Marquise.  She  remained  speculating  as  to  her 
identity.  It  was  not  until  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the 
lady  was  assisted  to  alight,  that  she  saw  with  amazement 
that  the  visitor  was  her  mother. 


VIII 

So  great  was  her  surprise  that  at  first  a  feeling  of  fear, 
almost  of  paralysis,  kept  her  from  movement.  Then  she 
rose,  tore  open  the  door  to  her  room  to  run  down  the 
passage.  She  found  her  mother  already  on  the  landing  on 
her  way  up  to  her. 

Helena  gave  a  little  cry  of  delight  and  apprehension. 

"Mater,  what  is  it?    What  has  happened?" 

Their  embrace  was  silent.  Mrs.  Cass  looked  at  Her 
daughter  earnestly  and  in  that  single  scrutiny  knew  Helena 
had  changed  in  some  impalpable  way.  It  was  not  that  she 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  her  present  unhappiness ;  she  was 
diffident;  her  first  impression  was  that  she  and  her  daugh- 
ter had  grown  strangely  apart,  and  Helena's  unhappiness 
was  no  trivial  matter. 

They  climbed  the  stairs  in  silence  and  entered  Miss 
Cass's  room  and  her  mother  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

"Mother,  tell  me,  is  anyone  ill?" 

"No,  dear." 

"Has  anything  gone  wrong  at  home  ?" 

"No." 

"But  if  everyone's  well  I  don't  understand.  Why  are 
you  here?" 

"I  am  here  because  I  was  cabled  for." 

"Who  cabled?" 

"Madame  de  Lanel.  She  sent  a  message  over  a  week 
ago  asking  that  I  come  and  fetch  you,  because  your  con- 
duct with  Mr.  Buel  was  such  that  she  could  not  be  respon- 
sible for  you  any  longer." 

"She  sent  those  words  over  the  wires?" 

"Yes." 

Helena  gripped  her  fingers  together  and  then  tore  them 
apart  in  a  moment  of  uncontrollable  anger. 

79 


8o         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"That  woman  is  a  fearful  bounder,"  she  cried.  "She 
only  did  it  out  of  jealousy  of  me.  It  isn't  Jordan  she 
objects  to  but  Monsieur  de  Lanel.  She  is  jealous  of  his 
smallest  attentions  to  me,  and  he  only  persists  in  them 
because  of  her  discourtesy." 

"The  message  in  itself  explains  the  woman,  but  I  won- 
der her  husband  allowed  it." 

"What  could  he  do?" 

"I  should  have  thought  he  would  have  remonstrated." 

"What  could  he  say?  What  could  anybody  say?  Very 
likely  he  didn't  know  it.  After  all  he's  only  a  man  and 
men  are  all  alike.  Men  only  differ  in  their  wives." 

She  threw  herself  vigorously  on  the  bed,  her  shoulders 
shaking  convulsively,  her  face  buried  in  the  pillows. 

"Helena,  Helena,"  Mrs.  Cass  expostulated.  "This  isn't 
like  you.  You  aren't  crying?" 

She  spoke  with  real  alarm,  for  it  was  years  since  she  had 
seen  her  daughter  cry. 

Helena  sat  up  shamefacedly. 

"No,  I'm  not,  but  it's  only  because  I  don't  know  how," 
she  confessed  as  she  gave  a  rueful  twisted  smile.  "I'd  like 
to.  I'd  like  to  howl." 

"How  long  is  it  going  to  take  you  to  finish  your  packing? 
I  told  the  carriage  to  wait  If  you  hurry  we  can  take  it 
Hack  to  Rennes  and  stop  there  for  the  night.  It  is  im- 
possible for  either  of  us  to  remain  here." 

Twenty  minutes  later  her  trunks  packed  and  carried 
downstairs,  Helena  made  inquiries  to  see  Madame  de  Lanel 
and  bade  her  good-bye,  but  was  told  she  was  "not  at  home" 
and  Monsieur  le  Marquis  was  riding  and  his  return  un- 
certain. 

"Naturally  she  would  remain  tinder  cover  before  you, 
Mater.  I  suppose  she's  in  her  own  room  now  behind 
locked  doors." 

"Why  should  you  want  to  meet  her?" 

"I  don't.  Except  that  I  despise  a  coward.  If  I  ever 
stooped  to  so  low  a  method,  I  would  at  least  face  it.  Any- 
way I  haven't  forgotten  my  breeding/'  she  said  as  she  was 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         81 

handed  into  the  carriage  beside  her  mother  and  they  were 
driven  away. 

They  spent  the  night  at  Rennes  and  took  the  early  train 
to  Paris  where  Miss  Cass  was  once  more  installed  at  the 
Meurice. 

The  first  few  days  were  given  over  to  a  ceaseless  activity 
of  dressmakers  and  sightseeing.  A  round  of  the  ateliers 
of  the  best  craftsmen  of  Paris  had  assured  them  they  were 
in  need  of  many  things  which  it  would  be  ill  advised  to 
return  to  America  without  acquiring.  It  was  one  morn- 
ing  after  a  particularly  long  and  tedious  "trying-on"  at  an 
establishment  in  the  Rue  Cambon  that,  motoring  up  the 
Champs  Elysees  under  the  flowering  chestnuts,  Mrs.  Cass 
asked  her  first  question. 

"How  did  Mr.  Buel  happen  to  be  in  Brittany  at  the 
same  time  as  you?" 

"I  wondered  why  you  didn't  ask  that  before." 

"I  have  been  waiting  to  see  if  you  would  tell  me  of  your 
own  accord." 

After  Helena  had  finished  her  explanation  Mrs.  Cass  felt 
that  her  daughter's  avowal  had  not  taken  quite  the  form 
which  she  had  intended.  She  looked  at  her  mother  with 
compassion  and  admiration.  Mrs.  Cass  was  far  from  a 
beautiful  woman,  but  there  was  something  restful  in  her 
being  deliberately  middle-aged.  Her  appearance  was  al- 
ways dowdy,  but  a  dowdiness  which  suggested  means ;  her 
failure  at  smartness  seeming  more  from  intent  than  from 
want  of  skill.  She  wore  no  jewellery  but  the  broad,  un- 
sightly band  bought  at  a  period  when  wedding  rings  were 
wide,  and  a  pair  of  diamond  earrings  Mr.  Cass  had  given 
her  when  they  were  married,  which  she  slept  in  and  never 
removed.  One  forgot  her  shortcomings  after  seeing  the 
steadfastness  of  her  eyes;  eyes  before  which  secrets  ceased 
to  be  secrets. 

"We  are  in  harmony,  you  and  I,  mother.  Why  can't  life 
always  be  as  pleasant?  It  would  be  so  much  easier  if 
father  wouldn't  deliberately  misunderstand  me,  and  censure 
everyone  who  is  not  exactly  like  himself." 


«2         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"You  know  your  father's  peculiarities.  The  only  thing 
for  you  to  do  is  to  attempt  not  to  rouse  them." 

"Every  time  I  came  home  I  tried  to  iron  myself  flat 
before  I  entered  the  house.  I  prefer  never  to  express  an 
opinion.  But  you  wouldn't  have  me  cowed  like  Annis, 
would  you?  The  only  freedom  that  I  can  see  in  store  for 
the  two  of  us  is  to  marry,  quickly,  and  get  away.  But 
there  is  no  one  paying  Annis  any  attention/is  there?" 

"No." 

"Well,  directly  I  am  married  I  promise  I  shall  take  her 
in  hand  and  see  what  I  can  do  for  her." 

Miss  Cass  had  spoken  with  greater  temerity  than  she 
knew.  Several  seconds  elapsed  before  she  realised  that 
she  never  expressed  herself  so  definitely  since  her  father 
had  issued  his  edicts  that  Mr.  Buel  was  not  to  enter  his 
home  again,  and  that  Helena's  ring  was  to  be  immediately 
returned. 

Mrs.  Cass's  eyes  travelled  from  her  daughter's  averted 
profile  to  her  ungloved  hands  clasped  in  her  lap  where  the 
diamond  winked,  every  facet  one  of  fire  in  the  sunlight. 

"Then  you  intend  to  marry  Mr.  Buel?"  she  asked  at 
length. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  frank  with  you,  mother  ?  You  know 
I  intend  to.  I've  always  intended  to,  even  when  I  seemed 
to  give  up  for  peace  sake  when  father  was  so  rampageous 
with  all  that  melodramatic  fustian  about  'not  darkening  his 
door.'  If  poor  father  only  had  a  sense  of  humour  he 
would  realise  that  sort  of  thing  is  outdated,  and  not  a  little 
absurd.  It  would  put  an  end  to  our  intriguing.  I'm  not  bad. 
I'm  amenable  to  tact,  but  I  won't  be  whipped.  Why,  I 
know  enough  even  about  horses  to  know  that  the  animal 
who  submits  to  a  whipping  is  good  for  nothing.  I  sup- 
pose there's  enough  of  father  in  me  to  rebel.  I'm  a  blooded 
animal,  not  good  old  Dobbin  to  be  driven  between  the 
shafts.  .  .  .  Mother,  when  we  return,  won't  you  try  to 
urge  father  to  reconsider  his  attitude  toward  Jordan  ?  After 
all,  he  knows  nothing  against  him,  does  he?" 

"No." 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         83 

"Then  isn't  his  dislike  childish?" 

"Perhaps." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  married  furtively  in  runaway  style. 
I  have  a  personal  loathing  of  deceit  and  elopements  and 
the  usual  procedure  of  ill-breeding.  I  want  to  go  up  to 
Lohengrin  and  come  back  to  Mendelssohn  in  true  orthodox 
manner.  You  will  urge  him,  won't  you?" 

"I  will  if  I  can." 

"Why  do  you  say  'if  you  can  ?' " 

"Because  at  present  I  share  your  father's  dislike  of  Mr. 
Buel." 

"You  dislike  Jordan?" 

"I  don't  like  him.  What  I  blame  your  father  for  doing 
is  opposing  the  match  at  the  start.  I  think  you  cared  very 
little  for  Mr.  Buel  until  your  father  began  his  abuse  of  him. 
I  believe  if  he  had  consented  and  urged  the  match  you 
would  never  have  become  engaged." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  quite  so  perverse?" 

Helena  flushed  but  her  mother  continued  imperturbably : 

"I  believe  your  first  real  attraction  to  the  man  began 
when  he  was  berated.  You  felt  that  it  was  done  behind 
his  back  and  you  undertook  his  defence  yourself.  The 
more  detractors  he  had,  the  more  ardent  your  defence. 
You  soon  felt  you  couldn't  live  without  him.  Do  you  feel 
that  way  now?" 

"Yes." 

Miss  Cass  remained  silent  a  moment  after  this  admission, 
then  she  said: 

"On  what  do  you  base  your  opinion?  Have  you  heard 
anything  against  him?" 

"Not  a  thing.  It  is  purely  personal.  I  feel  he  is  not  a 
man  to  interest  you  after  the  first  few  months  of  love- 
making  are  over.  He  is  the  first  man,  so  far  as  I  know, 
to  be  very  much  in  love  with  you.  That  in  itself  has  its 
effect.  When  the  time  comes  when  you  can  allow  him  to 
take  your  hand  without  any  perceivable  rise  of  temperature, 
you  will  see  him  as  I  do.  I  want  to  spare  you  that.  I 
don't  prohibit  your  marrying  him,  Helena,  I  only  ask  you 


84         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

to  wait.  I  will  urge  your  father  to  allow  him  to  come  to 
the  house  on  our  return  if  you  will  not  announce  your  en- 
gagement until  four  months  later.  By  that  time  you  should 
know.  Is  that  fair?" 

"Yes." 

"And  in  the  meantime  you  will  not  see  him  or  speak  of 
him  to  me  ?  You  agree  to  that  ?" 

"If  you  wish." 

"And  as  soon  as  you  cease  to  love  him  you  will  tell  me  ?" 

"Mother,  I  shall  love  Jordan  as  long  as  I  live." 

"No  doubt.  But  as  soon  as  you  cease  to,  you  will  tell 
me?" 

"Yes." 

For  some  time  following  this  conversation  they  remained 
silent. 

The  taxicab  was  returning  down  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and 
drew  up  in  front  of  the  Meurice. 

As  Miss  Cass  made  her  way  to  the  office  for  her  key 
the  clerk  handed  her  a  note  and  two  cards.  She  took  them 
with  a  feeling  of  intense  curiosity  as  she  recognised  in  a 
glance  that  it  was  the  angular  penmanship  of  the  Marquise 
de  Lanel,  written  on  her  tinted,  scented,  coroneted  paper. 

She  tore  open  the  note  and  read  that  dear,  dear  Nell  must 
be  very  much  surprised  at  her  delay  in  writing  to  say  how 
much  she  regretted  not  being  at  home  when  Nell  left.  She 
had  hoped  Mrs.  Cass  would  pay  her  a  short  visit  and  per- 
haps, if  their  plans  to  return  to  America  were  not  too  defi- 
nite, they  would  both  come  to  her  in  the  Spring.  Chateau 
life  was  pleasanter  at  that  time  of  the  year  and  she  expected 
a  series  of  house  parties  which  would  be  incomplete  with- 
out her.  She  would  have  written  earlier  but  she  had  been 
very  occupied  in  connection  with  the  charity  ball,  and  speak- 
ing of  that,  she  did  not  know  just  how  angry  she  should  be 
with  Nell  for  deserting  her  before  it  had  been  pulled  off. 
As  it  was  Comte  Andre  had  asked  after  her  and  Tristram 
remarked  how  much  he  had  missed  her.  Anticipating  her 
return  and  her  mother's  in  the  Spring,  she  sent  much  love 
to  both,  but  especially  Nell,  from  her  ever  fondly  Edith. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         85 

Miss  Cass  read  the  note  through  twice  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. Had  the  woman  taken  leave  of  her  senses?  Her 
feeling  at  first  was  one  of  indignation  at  what  appeared  to 
be  unbridled  impertinence.  Then  she  glanced  at  the 
cards  which  depicted  views  of  the  chateau  and  were  in- 
scribed with  like  messages,  though  with  greater  restraint, 
and  signed :  "Fondly,  E.  de  L." 

It  was  her  first  acquaintance  with  the  childless,  etheric 
type  of  woman  whose  sex  became  a  burden  to  her  in  out- 
living her  youth.  She  had  not  known  it  possible  that 
women  depending  entirely  upon  their  femaleness  for  their 
hold  over  husbands  or  lovers,  became  neuropathic,  devel- 
oped hallucinations,  imagining  every  younger  woman  a 
solicitant  for  the  love  of  their  mates. 

Two  days  later  brought  another  and  more  explosive  let- 
ter and  after  that  the  fusilade  of  endearments  was  recom- 
menced with  old-time  vigour.  Miss  Cass  threw  these  notes 
all  into  the  scrap  basket  with  contemptuous  disregard  and 
the  single  observation : 

"That  woman  is  a  better  subject  for  a  series  of  sanatoria 
than  house  parties." 

During  the  odd  hours  which  extended  between  ceaseless 
shopping  expeditions  and  futile  trips  to  the  dressmaker  for 
shifted  or  cancelled  "fittings"  they  did  those  things  which 
two  ladies  alone  in  Paris  were  privileged  to  do.  Thousands 
of  Americans  thronged  the  pavements,  and  one  day  on 
entering  Rumplemeye.rs  at  the  tea  hour  they  came  upon 
Mrs.  Slaterlee  and  her  two  young  ladies.  To  Mrs.  Cass's 
suggestion  that  they  leave  and  seek  the  Ritz,  Helena  was 
not  agreeable.  Her  mother  had  ordered  pen  and  paper  and 
was  engaged  in  writing  a  note  and  Miss  Cass  had  opened 
a  newspaper  to  look  up  a  theatre  for  the  evening  while 
waiting  for  their  order.  In  this  way  their  acquaintances 
were  allowed  to  pass  them  without  recognition  so  that  Miss 
Cass  never  knew  if  she  had  been  observed  or  not. 

Sometimes  when  they  took  their  coffee  on  the  terrace  of 
the  de  la  Paix  they  sought  cynical  amusement  in  counting 
the  faces  which  they  recalled  having  seen  at  home  on  the 


Avenue.  They  went  to  the  more  decorous  theatres,  and 
•even  dined  at  the  Madrid  and  had  supper  at  L'Abbeye. 
One  warm  hushed  night  when  the  scent  of  chestnuts  and 
flash  of  fireflies  in  the  Bois  made  the  thought  of  bed  a 
mockery  they  became  a  link  in  the  procession  of  motors 
after  the  theatre.  Each  car  held  a  man  and  his  companion 
in  evening  dress,  in  search  of  some  absurd  or  perverse 
gaiety.  The  flattering  glow  of  the  Avenues  was  like  some 
artfully  lighted  drawing-room.  Cigarette  ends  gleamed  out 
of  the  darkness  of  each  car  like  suspended  fireflies. 

They  stopped  at  a  restaurant  where  the  tables  were  set 
up  in  the  trees  reached  by  a  winding  perpendicular  staircase, 
each  table  lighted  by  a  suppressed  gleam  which  might  have 
been  produced  by  clusters  of  low-powered  glow  worms. 
At  first  the  magic  of  the  picture  held  Miss  Cass ;  the  tables 
at  various  levels,  the  lights,  the  chaff  called  from  one  to  the 
other,  frequently  tasteless  when  accurately  understood  but 
in  keeping,  typical,  congruent.  And  in  the  distance  beyond 
the  shrubberies  the  kaleidoscopic  shifting  of  motor  cars 
without  once  breaking  the  endless  deploy.  In  the  haze  of 
the  lake  swans  with  prodigious  gravity  swam  slowly  across 
placid  water,  or  attempted  to  make  night  out  of  the  vague 
unreal  splendour  of  this  Paris  day. 

But  as  time  passed  she  realised  they  were  the  only  ladies 
alone  and  their  inconvenable  position  made  itself  felt. 
Some  of  these  people  would  go  in  the  early  morning  to 
Pre-Catalan  and  see  the  cows  milked,  filles  galantes  and 
their  companions,  and  be  provided  with  glasses  of  warm 
milk.  At  such  moments  she  recalled  Jordan  Buel's  sense 
of  fun,  his  willingness  to  enter  into  any  sport,  his  strength 
and  hardihood  which  made  him  an  assured  victor.  If  he 
had  been  in  command  that  evening  each  minute  would  be 
charged  with  the  exchange  of  furtive  glances  and  all  the 
intoxicating  privileges  of  betrothal. 

For  there  was  no  question  of  their  not  marrying.  She 
realised  each  day  as  the  loss  of  him  made  itself  more  keenly 
felt  how  spiritless,  without  savour,  were  the  blanks  which 
•extended  between  the  hours  of  rising  and  going  to  bed. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         87 

The  tedium  would  have  been  relieved  could  she  only  recall 
his  anecdotes,  his  foolish  mockery,  but  his  name  was  not 
to  be  spoken  before  her  mother. 

Paris  under  the  circumstances  revoked  his  image  too 
distressfully  to  be  pleasant  to  a  girl  in  love,  and  without 
adequate  substance  to  satisfy.  At  first  she  hoped  that  in 
the  hazards  of  every  day  movement  they  might  run  across 
him,  the  days  foreigners  followed  being  all  very  much  of 
the  same  motiveless  plan.  But  at  length  that  hope  was 
renounced  and  the  unreasoning  need  of  getting  away 
became  vehement. 

It  was  one  morning  when,  their  dressmaking  completed, 
they  were  leaving  Boue  Soeurs  on  their  way  to  Cook's  to 
book  their  return  passage  for  America,  that  Helena  re- 
marked : 

"Must  we  go  home  directly?  You  need  a  vacation, 
mother.  Isn't  there  some  quiet  place  that  you  would  like  to 
go?" 

And  so  it  happened  that  they  emerged  into  Rue  de  1'Opera 
with  tickets  to  Madrid  and  had  planned  a  brief  trip  ia 
Spain,  booked  to  sail  four  weeks  later  from  Cadiz. 


IX 

MRS.  CASS  and  her  daughter  were  quartered  at  the  de  la 
Paz  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol.  All  the  carriages  and  motor 
cars  of  the  city  passed  in  a  double  file  beneath  their  win- 
dows out  the  Calle  de  Alcala  to  the  Prado,  returning  by 
the  Carrera  San  Jeronimo.  They  soon  acquired  the  habit 
of  spending  their  evenings  in  driving  to  the  Prado,  there 
to  alight  and  stroll  along  the  gravelled  walks  under  the 
plane  and  ilex  trees,  watching  the  leaping  fountains  that 
sought  to  cool  the  summer  air  and  listening  to  the  music 
out  of  doors. 

This  was  an  animated  scene  frequented  by  all  walks  of 
life.  Ladies  of  Madrid  in  Paris  hats,  with  only  an  occa- 
sional older  woman  wearing  the  native  mantilla;  peasants 
and  work  girls,  their  heads  uncovered  showing  thick  black 
hair,  glossy  as  though  powdered  with  diamond  dust,  a  red 
rose  or  an  immense  fringed  carnation  worn  above  the 
forehead;  young  girls  attempting  to  return  the  glances  of 
students  in  spite  of  watchful  duennas ;  nurses  with  infants 
in  perambulators  sleeping  through  all  the  hubbub;  and 
slightly  older  children  who  raced  between  the  legs  of 
pedestrians  and  played  at  bull  fighting  among  the  myrtles. 
And  accosting  each  person  as  they  passed  were  beggars 
who  asked  for  charity  with  all  the  nerve  and  decorum  of 
diplomatists  and  the  caballero  accosted  proved  himself  the 
equal  of  the  beggar  in  courtesy  by  discharging  the  obliga- 
tion. 

At  midnight  the  crowds  remained  undiminished,  viva- 
cious, orderly,  without  insult  or  drunkenness.  And  al- 
though pickpockets  might  ply  their  trade  it  was  done  suave- 
ly, with  dignity.  For  Helena,  feeling  an  alien  hand  in  her 
pocket,  grasped  a  man's  wrist.  He  bowed,  raised  his  hat 
with  his  free  hand  and  remarked: 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         89 

"My  mistake,  senorita." 

And  Miss  Cass,  embarrassed  by  her  familiarity  in  hold- 
ing his  hand,  instantly  released  it  as  her  cheek  flushed  and 
she  murmured: 

"I'm  so  sorry." 

Later  Helena  and  her  mother  both  laughed.  No  matter 
what  their  deed  it  would  be  impossible  for  these  people  to 
lose  their  urbanity;  they  were  the  best  bred  of  the  world, 
conscious  of  their  reputation,  and  able  to  realise  it.  Here 
indeed  was  the  perfect  democracy  of  a  proud  race  in  which 
the  hidalgo  and  the  mendicant  are  treated  alike,  for  to  the 
lady  the  beggar  is  a  caballero  no  'ess,  and  the  caballero  a 
man,  no  more. 

The  heat  became  intense  and  even  flooding  the  streets 
three  times  a  day  failed  to  relieve  an  atmosphere  that  was 
like  the  breath  of  a  furnace.  Leaves  fell  in  the  plazas 
from  a  burning  temperature  more  devastating  than  the  cold 
of  winter.  At  noontime  laborers  in  soiled  blouses  lay  on 
the  pavements  asleep  in  the  attitudes  of  the  dead,  seeking 
any  protection  from  a  sky  of  metal.  In  the  poorer  quarters 
small  boys  played  without  orthodox  garments  and  in  front 
of  fruit  shops  tenders  kept  vigil,  a  duster  of  paper  stream- 
ers astir  to  discourage  flies  from  the  unsound  fruit. 

With  the  approach  of  evening  streets  that  had  been  de- 
serted sprang  once  more  to  life.  The  walking-sticks  of 
blind  men  were  heard  tapping  the  stones,  boys  balancing 
trays  heaped  with  apricots  on  their  heads  jostled  the  crowd. 
With  the  darkness  appeared  heavily  scented  women,  their 
faces  powdered  as  white  as  magnolia  blossoms,  indecisive 
step  and  lingering  eyes  linking  them  as  generic  sisters  to 
the  women  of  the  Paris  Boulevards.  Niiios  cried  evening 
papers  above  the  rattle  of  wheels,  policemen  with  sabres  re- 
spectfully conducted  sisters  of  mercy  across  impassable 
paseos  and  strangers  were  not  free  from  the  importunities 
of  men  urging  the  last  chance  for  the  transfer  of  a  lottery 
ticket. 

On  the  day  of  a  corrida  bands  were  to  be  heard  tuning 
up  in  the  morning  and  playing  at  intervals  throughout  the 


9o         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

day.  At  an  early  hour  the  Calle  de  Alcala  and  its  tribu- 
taries became  congested  with  vehicles  of  every  description 
drawn  by  horses,  mules  and  asses,  wedged  in  among 
worldly  motor-cars  sounding  impatient  horns.  The  Mayor 
and  his  family  were  seen  to  drive  by  in  a  barouche  and 
peasants  in  native  costume  had  been  passing  all  morning 
carrying  their  lunches,  on  the  way  to  the  bull-ring  to  wait 
patiently  for  hours  in  the  sun.  Sober-looking  matadores 
in  costumes  that  dazzled  the  sunlight,  each  wearing  the  cape 
thrown  over  one  shoulder  and  twisted  about  the  waist,  and 
the  small  round  hat  of  tradition  worn  above  the  eyes, 
responded  gravely  to  the  delight  of  their  admirers.  When 
the  espada  of  the  hour  was  discovered  driving  among  the 
press  he  was  received  with  acclamation,  waving  handker- 
chiefs, cigarettes  and  flowers  thrown  from  crowded  bal- 
conies. Field  glasses  were  for  sale  or  hire,  sirops  and 
sherbets  hawked  outside  and  within  the  ring.  .  .  . 

It  was  on  such  a  day  that  Mrs.  Cass  continued  her  per- 
sistent trips  to  the  Museo  del  Prado  since  the  gallery  was 
cool  and  she  was  assured  of  being  alone  in  the  sala  of 
Velasquez.  After  remaining  some  time,  catalogue  in  hand, 
before  the  infant  Don  Carlo  and  Queen  Isabel  of  Bourbon 
she  turned  to  Helena  for  comment  and  discovered  she  had 
not  noticed  the  pictures.  She  had  observed  her  daughter's 
waning  attention  for  several  days.  The  extreme  heat  had 
made  her  pale  and  a  lassitude  had  descended  upon  her  that 
she  appeared  unable  to  rouse.  Sometimes  through  an  entire 
meal  at  the  hotel  she  would  not  once  open  her  lips  to  speak. 

"You're  tired?" 

But  Miss  Cass  scouted  the  idea.  It  wasn't  fatigue,  yet 
for  some  reason  Velasquez  did  not  hold  her  attention.  Her 
mother  proposed  that  they  visit  the  house  where  he  had 
lived  which  was  on  exhibition. 

"I  really  don't  care  to  see  it.  You  look  shocked.  Don't 
protest.  .  .  .  I'll  admit  I'm  in  an  ugly  humour.  Just  don't 
talk  to  me  for  a  little  while,  please.  I'm  going  for  a  long 
walk.  I'll  be  back  before  dinner  and  much  better  com- 
pany." 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         91 

"In  this  heat!"  Mrs.  Cass  protested. 

But  Helena  had  gone. 

One  afiernoon  while  Mrs.  Cass  was  taking  a  siesta 
Helena  started  for  a  ramble  on  foot,  passed  the  Royal  Pal- 
ace to  the  massive  bridge  which  spans  the  Manzanares.  In 
late  August  this  had  shrunk  to  a  half  dozen  rivulets,  that 
separated  and  rejoined  across  a  sandy  bar,  but  after  winter 
rains  would  become  a  considerable  stream.  Here  kneeling 
at  work  were  all  the  laundresses  of  Madrid  washing  gar- 
ments of  every  colour.  While  spread  out  to  dry  on  the 
bank  were  lines  of  crimson,  orange,  vermillion,  like  some 
great  horticulturist's  experimental  gardens. 

Helena  remained  on  the  bridge  watching  the  women  at 
work,  struck  by  the  colours  under  the  fiery  sun  as  form- 
ing a  picture.  She  suddenly  noticed  two  Englishwomen 
seated  beneath  the  shelter  of  a  sun-umbrella  who  were 
sketching  the  scene. 

The  elder  had  risen  and  moved  back  for  a  better  view  of 
her  work  and  in  glancing  up  caught  Miss  Cass's  eye  upon 
her.  She  recognised  her  observer  as  English-speaking  and 
nodded : 

"Picturesque,  isn't  it?"  she  observed. 

"Very.  I  envy  you.  I  was  wishing  I  had  brought  my 
materials." 

"Do  you  sketch  too?" 

"A  little." 

"Then  why  don't  you  join  us?  You  won't  be  in  the  way, 
and  there  are  crayons  enough  for  us  all." 

They  were  working  in  water  colour  and  pastel  and  at 
their  feet  lay  a  tray  of  chalk  of  every  hue.  Helena  seated 
herself  in  the  dust  without  further  ceremony,  accepted  the 
paper,  clamped  it  to  a  drawing  board  and  began  to  work 
feverishly  in  silence.  Their  own  sketches  were  more  than 
half  finished  and  she  was  afraid  they  would  be  ready  to 
leave  shortly.  All  the  futile  restlessness  of  past  days  left 
her  as  she  felt  the  crayons  once  more  between  her  fingers. 
Never  had  she  wanted  to  do  anything  so  much  as  sketch  at 
that  moment. 


92         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

When  at  length,  the  sketch  finished,  they  asked  to  see  it 
and  she  held  it  up  for  inspection,  she  realised  that,  in  spite 
of  haste,  it  was  a  creditable  drawing.  It  could  not  equal 
the  delicacy  of  theirs,  but  at  least  it  was  nothing  she  need 
be  ashamed  to  show,  since  it  possessed  a  certain  verve 
coupled  with  a  very  accurate  sense  of  colour. 

"That's  rather  charming,"  the  elder  woman  remarked. 
"I  like  it.  Have  you  done  much  sketching  here  ?" 

"None." 

"What  a  pity  we  didn't  meet  earlier.  My  sister  and  I  have 
just  been  on  a  sketching  trip  in  the  Sierra  Morena  but  we're 
returning  home  the  first  of  the  week.  We  found  the  most 
delightful  spot.  I'll  tell  you  the  name.  You  must  go  there. 
Every  street  of  the  village  was  'paintable,'  and  such  types ! 
Madrid  really  isn't  picturesque.  It's  getting  very  like  Paris 
and  Brussels.  One  has  to  go  to  out-of-the-way  places  for 
colour  now,  even  in  Spain." 

While  talking  she  had  strapped  up  her  camp  stools,  draw- 
ing box  and  umbrella  and  they  now  set  out  to  return  to 
town. 

"Do  tell  me  some  more  about  this  place,"  Helena  pleaded. 
"You  make  me  restless  to  leave." 

"It's  delightfully  inaccessible.  The  express  stops  at  the 
town  of  El  Cerrito,  which  is  the  nearest  point  of  communica- 
tion. From  there  you  take  a  diligence  which  leaves  twice  a 
week  and  it  is  a  three-hour  journey.  The  diligence  is  canvas 
covered,  drawn  by  mules  that  have  been  carefully  shorn  so 
that  their  backs  and  flanks  carry  out  an  imaginative  design 
and  motto  of  their  owner,  which  in  the  sunlight  makes  the 
animals  look  as  though  their  hides  had  been  covered  with 
stamped  velvet.  The  mules  wear  tasselled  fly-nets  and  col- 
lars of  bells.  It's  a  very  exhilarating  drive  to  Fuente  la 
Higuera.  The  village  is  situated  high  up  in  the  mountains 
past  shrines  for  penitents,  and  little  wayside  hamlets.  There 
are  herds  of  bearded  goats,  the  herder  with  a  rose  behind 
his  ear,  marching  along  singing  some  wild  Spanish  refrain 
that  is  centuries  old.  Many  of  the  inhabitants  have  never 
seen  a  train  and  none  of  them  speak  any  English  except 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        93 

the  proprietor  of  the  fonda,  and  his  is  very  limited.  But 
his  wife  cooks  a  delicious  olla  and  I'm  very  fond  of  Spanish 
cooking.  You  should  taste  her  blood  pudding  and  pimento 
omelet  served  with  hearts  of  artichokes  prepared  in  oil  and 
surrounded  with  yellow  rice.  .  .  . 

"We  were  there  three  days  and  were  sorry  we  couldn't 
stay  longer.  It's  such  a  pity  that  these  places  can't  re- 
main always  the  same.  As  an  artist  civilisation  almost 
breaks  my  heart.  The  world  is  becoming  more  shrewd 
but  less  intelligent." 

Here  the  younger  woman  remarked : 

"Don't  encourage  my  sister  on  that  subject." 

At  the  corner  of  the  Calle  de  Alcala  they  bade  each  other 
good-bye  and  Miss  Cass  returned  to  the  hotel. 

Helena  was  surprised  that  the  enthusiasm  of  a  chance 
acquaintance  should  so  have  power  to  ignite  her  own.  But 
she  felt  that  a  sketching  tour  was  the  one  thing  that  would 
ease  this  irresolution  of  thought  and  inconsecutiveness  of 
action.  It  was  better  that  she  recommenced  work,  and  since 
she  had  enjoyed  sketching  that  afternoon,  wouldn't  a  week 
at  the  village  of  Fuente  la  Higuera  bring  her  forgetfulness 
and  quiet  rebellious  nerves? 

She  had  always  felt  a  peculiar  contempt  for  the  senti- 
mental type  of  womanhood.  And  yet  for  days  she  had  been 
the  victim  of  moods,  of  intense  depression,  in  which  she  had 
forced  herself  to  long  walks  and  drives  because  if  she  had 
remained  in  their  suite  she  would  have  lain  on  the  floor 
and  kicked.  She  had  a  mental  picture  of  herself  in  the 
process  of  thus  quieting  her  over-stimulation.  Was  this 
love?  .  .  .  Where  was  her  splendid  control  of  the  past,  her 
sane  outlook,  her  untiring  fondness  of  exercise,  her  unwill- 
ingness to  submit  to  tiresome  conventions?  At  such  mo- 
ments she  wished  she  had  never  seen  Mr.  Buel,  and  follow- 
ing the  thought  she  felt  penitent  tears  rising  and  she  knew 
she  wanted  him  as  she  never  wanted  anyone  in  her  life. 
And  yet  she  could  not  talk  of  him  to  her  mother,  and  that 
in  itself  seemed  to  draw  them  apart. 

But  when  the  project  of  a  trip  was  suggested  Mrs.  Cass 


94         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

agreed  with  the  single  reservation  that  they  consult  the 
American  Consul  as  to  the  safety  of  that  region  for  two 
foreign  ladies  travelling  alone. 

"Of  course  it's  safe,  mater.  Those  two  English  women 
were  there  alone." 

"Perhaps  they  were  older  than  you." 

"They  were." 

"And  less  attractive." 

"Oh,  hang  my  attractiveness.  I'm  hideous.  I  thought  so 
this  morning  when  looking  in  the  glass." 

"You're  not  happy." 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  didn't  mean  anything.  Really  I  didn't. 
And  you  mustn't  mind  what  I  say.  I'm  merely  getting 
jumpy." 

That  afternoon  Mrs.  Cass  consulted  Mr.  Tooker,  and 
discovered  that  the  American  Consul  knew  very  little  about 
that  quarter  of  the  Sierra  Morena  mountains  where  they 
proposed  going.  He  had  held  his  official  position  many 
years  and  travelled  frequently  by  train  without  incident, 
but  more  than  that  he  could  not  say.  He  invited  Mrs.  Cass 
to  call  upon  him  if  he  could  be  of  use  to  her  at  any  future 
time.  In  view  of  this  neutral  response  she  decided  to  at- 
tempt the  trip.  Since  it  was  only  for  a  week  they  would 
carry  hand-luggage  and  very  little  money,  and  then  should 
Fuente  la  Higuera  fail  to  live  up  to  expectations  they  could 
continue  to  Cordoba. 

This  decision  reached,  Helena's  face  brightened  and  she 
threw  her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck. 

"Mumsy,  you  are  the  dearest  creature  that  ever  lived.  I 
wonder  why  I'm  such  a  beast  ?  I  feel  I  have  it  in  me  to  be 
a  really  nice  person,  I  mean  develop  strength  of  character, 
and  yet  I  don't." 

"You're  thoughtless,  that's  all,  but  I  know  you're  going 
to  overcome  that." 

And  yet  that  evening  when  Mrs.  Cass  descended  to  a  late 
dinner  she  saw  Helena  posting  a  letter,  and  as  her  eyes  met 
her  mother's  her  face  flushed  guiltily,  then  paled.  Mrs. 
Cass  knew  without  questioning  vthat  the  letter  was  to  Mr. 


Buel  and  in  spite  of  Helena's  promise  she  had  broken  her 
word. 

This  discovery  caused  her  actual  anguish.  Helena  might 
commit  many  deeds  through  impulsiveness  and  high  spirits, 
but  that  she  would  deliberately  break  her  word  was  incom- 
prehensible. It  was  part  of  her  characteristic  relationship 
with  Helena  that  she  never  asked  for  confidences.  She 
knew  that  no  allusion  on  her  part  would  bring  an  ad- 
mission and  she  refrained  from  asking  in  the  fear  that  her 
daughter  might  lie.  For  she  knew  from  the  expression  in 
Helena's  eyes  whom  she  had  written  to,  and  the  girl  caught 
in  deception  assumed  an  increasing  diffidence  to  cover  her 
distress. 

They  left  Madrid  next  morning  wearing  inconspicuous 
clothes,  their  apparel  limited  to  the  contents  of  a  dressing 
bag,  a  handbag,  a  large  portmanteau  and  a  box  containing 
colours,  drawing  materials  and  accessories.  According  to 
schedule  they  were  due  to  reach  the  town  of  El  Cerrito 
around  six  o'clock  that  evening.  El  Cerrito,  though  small, 
was  the  convergent  point  from  which  one  set  out  to  a  series 
of  villages  separated  from  railroad  connection.  As  most 
of  these  mountain  fastnesses  existed  independently,  and  the 
inhabitants  lived  and  died  within  the  shadow  of  their  birth- 
place, they  had  no  need  of  sending  or  receiving  anything  by 
rail.  Telephone  and  telegraph  were  alike  unknown  to 
them  and  the  motor  car  was  an  invention  of  the  devil  still 
unheard  of. 

The  train,  interminably  delayed,  dragged  them  across  an 
arid  plain,  through  rocky  gorges  and  over  sluggish,  yellow 
streams.  At  the  various  stoppages  water  carriers  ran  along 
the  platforms  crying:  "Agua  fresco,,  agua  fresca."  Wine 
was  sold  out  of  wine  skins  whereby  the  liquid  tasted 
strangely  leathery. 

In  the  mountain  passes  the  darkness  came  suddenly,  the 
sky  turning  a  faint  mauve  above  them  and  a  star  appeared 
through  the  evening  flush.  The  landscape  was  lost  in  a 
gloom  without  dimensions  and  lessened  only  by  an  occa- 


96         SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

sional  light.  It  was  nine  o'clock  when  the  train  drew  into 
the  platform  at  El  Cerrito. 

Mrs.  Cass  and  Helena  had  no  need  of  asking  questions 
of  the  Guardia  Civile,  resplendent  in  tarnished  uniform, 
who  affably  lounged  in  a  doorway  smoking  a  cigarette.  Her 
acquaintance  with  the  English  women  had  supplied  her  with 
sufficient  data,  even  to  the  day  and  hour  of  departure  of 
the  diligence  for  Fuente  la  Higuera.  In  a  moment  she 
recognised  the  man  from  the  detail  of  accoutrements  which 
had  been  described  to  her. 

Some  minutes  later  the  cochero  appeared,  a  big,  dark- 
faced  man,  wearing  a  black  sombrero,  his  legs  incased  in 
grass  gaiters,  carrying  two  bundles  wrapped  in  bright-col- 
oured cloth.  Helena  called  out  the  single  interrogation: 

"Fuenta  la  Higuera?" 

And  he  replied: 

"Si,  si,  senorita." 

Then  he  clambered  up  to  his  seat,  and  they  entered  the 
diligence  and  were  soon  rattling  down  the  narrow,  roughly 
paved  street,  and  were  out  in  the  darkness  of  the  country 
road.  They  sat  in  silence  for  a  time  peering  out  into  the 
enveloping  blackness,  but  at  length  as  their  effort  to  identify 
in  what  direction  they  were  going  failed  them,  they  ceased 
tc  pay  attention.  Mrs.  Cass  was  not  a  timid  woman.  The 
fact  that  they  were  proceeding  miles  from  civilisation  over 
an  ill-travelled  road  did  not  quicken  apprehensions  of  dan- 
ger. But  her  head  ached,  and  she  was  fatigued  after 
hours  of  discomfort  from  heat  and  dust  in  an  uncleanly 
first-class  carriage. 

After  they  had  continued  many  kilometres  they  sighted  a 
light  ahead,  and  the  driver  drew  up,  climbed  over  the  wheel 
and  leapt  to  the  ground.  He  entered  the  low  building,  a 
cantino  in  use  as  a  sort  of  halfway  house.  It  was  dark  but 
for  a  light  which  came  from  a  single  window  behind  a 
grating.  From  within  they  could  hear  the  thrum  of  a 
guitar  and  the  sound  of  voices.  Later  a  laugh  rang  out, 
more  voices,  then  a  long  silence.  The  mules  drew  their 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         97 

heads  together,  then  lowered  them  to  crop  at  the  dry  blades 
of  grass  in  the  roadway. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  no  sound  from  the  barraca, 
then  its  door  was  flung  wide  and  the  cochero  returned. 
From  the  light  behind  him  they  saw  that  his  step  was  lurch- 
ing and  heavy.  They  realised  he  was  quitting  a  wine-shop 
and  that  this  last  gratification  of  thirst  had  reduced  him 
to  senseless  torpor.  He  climbed  laboriously  up  to  his 
seat  and  gripped  the  lines.  He  called  abuse  to  the  animals 
in  words  so  vile  that  Helena  failed  to  understand  them,  as 
once  more  he  drove  the  mules  jingling  their  bells  at  a 
brisk  pace  through  the  darkness. 


THE  arrival  of  Mrs.  Cass  and  her  daughter  at  Fuenta  la 
Higuera  that  night  was  more  in  the  nature  of  a  deliverance 
than  anything  else.  The  darkness  that  closed  about  them 
seemed  a  palpable  substance,  dry,  unyielding,  that  all  en- 
veloped. The  air  was  scented  with  wild  growth  and  the 
pungent  odour  of  country  dust  which  the  animals'  tireless 
feet  provoked.  During  the  long  ascent  the  mules  walked, 
nor  could  the  driver's  opprobrium  quicken  their  pace. 

Reaching  the  crest  of  a  hill,  they  saw  the  town  before 
them  and  at  its  entrance  the  sweating  animals  stopped  in 
their  traces,  from  long  habit.  Miss  Cass  realised  that  their 
arrival  without  incident  was  due  to  the  sure-footed  mules. 
She  alighted,  carrying  her  luggage  and  handed  the  drunken 
cochero  several  pesetas  above  their  fare,  thinking,  in  this 
way,  to  obviate  any  possible  argument.  Then  they  proceeded 
on  foot  up  the  narrow  flagged  street,  paved  with  round 
stones.  The  middle  of  each  calle  sloped  toward  a  slight 
depression,  used  as  a  means  of  carrying  off  rain  and  even 
debris.  The  houses  of  Fuente  la  Higuera  were  all  huddled 
together  at  odd  angles  as  though  for  protection,  each  ad- 
hering to  the  next ;  many  were  built  Moorish  fashion  with- 
out windows  that  gave  toward  the  street.  If  the  hill  town 
was  not  prosperous  it  at  least  escaped  distress,  for  its 
buildings  were  whitewashed  and  its  doors  and  casements 
provided  with  heavy  locks  and  grills.  In  fact  had  Fuente  la 
Higuera  been  the  home  of  the  bandoleros  it  could  not  have 
been  more  securely  bolted  and  shuttered  against  intrusion, 
instead  of  being  as  quiet  a  township  as  lies  in  the  mountain 
district  of  Spain. 

The  Englishwomen  had  humourously  prepared  Helena 
a  diagram  of  the  fonda,  and  by  the  use  of  this  they  found 
the  place.  And  it  had  proved  a  wise  precaution,  since  the 

98 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS         99 

cochero  had  been  in  no  condition  to  direct  them,  and  no 
one  seemed  abroad  at  that  hour.  Although  midnight,  they 
saw  through  the  open  doorway  of  an  ill-lit  wine-shop  a 
group  of  men  seated  about  a  table  playing  cards,  while 
above  them  hung  a  mist  of  cigarette  smoke.  They  turned 
the  corner,  saw  the  sign  of  the  fonda,  and  approaching  it 
Helena  gave  a  resounding  knock  on  the  door. 

At  length  they  were  rewarded  by  hearing  footsteps  within. 
A  thin  line  of  light  appeared  above  the  worn  door-sill  and  a 
voice  called  out  in  Spanish : 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"A  lodging  for  the  night." 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Friends  of  the  English  ladies." 

At  that  the  door  swung  wide  and  they  were  bidden  to 
enter.  A  tall,  spare,  sinuous  man,  with  rolling  black  eyes, 
coffee-coloured  face  and  the  features  of  an  Arab  stood  in 
the  doorway.  He  spoke  a  harsh  Spanish  unfamiliar  to 
Helena,  but  she  understood  him  readily  and  concluded  that 
although  an  Andaluz  he  had  travelled  some  and  so  spoke 
Castifian  as  well  as  his  native  dialect.  He  wore  a  night- 
shirt, a  pair  of  hastily  assumed  trousers,  held  by  a  worn  red 
sash,  and  his  small  brown  feet  thrust  into  a  pair  of  list 
slippers. 

After  the  ladies  were  within  he  shut  and  bolted  the  door, 
set  down  his  candle  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  He  was  a 
person  of  portentous  dignity  and  with  a  fluent,  graceful 
gesture  enquired  if  they  had  experienced  a  comfortable 
journey. 

Miss  Cass  explained  that  a  delayed  train  had  occasioned 
their  unseasonable  arrival  but  hoped  they  would  be  accom- 
modated. Her  weeks  in  Madrid  had  proved  sufficient  to 
indoctrinate  her  with  the  need  of  excessive  courtesy  in  ad- 
dressing all  classes  of  Spaniards. 

"This  miserable  house  is  honoured,"  the  clerk  remarked 
with  an  inclination  of  his  head.  "I  am  happy  to  serve 
you." 

He  now  moved  to  the  back  of  the  room  which  served  as 


ioo       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

an  office.  He  opened  the  door  to  a  cupboard,  extracted  an 
ink  pot,  the  ink  of  which  had  almost  entirely  coagulated, 
and  two  slips  of  paper.  These  he  removed  from  a  visitors' 
book  in  which  they  were  later  to  be  inserted.  He  thrust  the 
rusty  nib  of  his  pen  into  the  ink  and  handed  it  to  Miss  Cass. 
He  pointed  with  the  nail  of  his  little  finger,  sallow  and 
conserved  with  care  to  a  great  length,  indicating  the  paper 
on  which  she  was  expected  to  sign  her  name.  She  was 
amused  at  the  absurdity  of  registering  at  this  primitive 
posada,  but  she  lifted  her  veil  and  removed  her  gloves  for 
the  operation.  She  wrote :  "Miss  Helena  Cass,  New  York," 
then  handed  the  pen  to  her  mother,  who  wrote :  "Mrs.  J.  de 
W.  Cass,  New  York." 

After  a  careful  scrutiny  of  their  names  he  remarked 
they  were  "English  from  New  York"  and  Helena  did  not 
correct  him,  knowing  that  in  the  mind  of  the  average  Span- 
iard an  "American"  means  a  South  American.  In  many 
of  the  smaller  towns  she  knew  the  existence  of  America 
was  unknown,  the  more  ignorant  of  the  peasants  believing 
there  was  no  country  other  than  Spain.  He  now  cast  sand 
upon  their  signatures,  then  placed  them  between  paper 
hinges  and  returned  the  book  to  the  cupboard. 

"My  mother  and  I  have  not  dined,"  Helena  remarked. 
"We  would  like  some  supper — anything  in  fact  that  you 
have  ready.  Some  bread  and  cheese  would  be  enough  and 
a  little  wine." 

"This  poor  house  contains  but  little,"  the  clerk  replied, 
"but  what  it  has  shall  be  laid  before  you." 

With  that  he  left  them  and  made  his  way  to  the  rear  of 
the  fonda  with  instructions  for  their  supper.  Exhausted, 
Mrs.  Cass  seated  herself  upon  a  rush-bottomed  chair  vis-a- 
vis to  Helena  with  a  table  between  them. 

"You're  very  tired,  mumsy,  aren't  you?  But  you're  not 
sorry  we  came.  The  town  is  picturesque.  And  I  think 
we're  going  to  be  reasonably  comfortable,  don't  you?" 

"I  hope  so." 

At  that  moment  she  noticed  the  ring  on  her  daughter's 
hand. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CAS&      [101 

"Why  will  you  wear  jewellery  when  travelling?"  she  en- 
quired. 

Helena  saw  that  her  mother  was  tired,  and  knew  that  a 
number  of  untoward  experiences  that  evening  had  each 
added  elements  contributory  to  her  present  feeling.  She 
turned  the  stone  on  the  inside  and  sat  with  her  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap.  A  few  minutes  later  the  clerk  entered 
bearing  their  supper  on  a  tray,  a  handful  of  steel  knives 
and  forks,  and  a  coloured  tablecloth  held  between  his  teeth. 
With  an  adroit  whisk  of  the  cloth  it  was  on  the  table  and 
savoury  breaths  rose  from  the  hot  fried  tortillas  of  eggs, 
meat  and  potatoes,  red  wine  from  a  skin,  brown  bread, 
delicious  figs  and  thick  coffee  faintly  spiced. 

Their  supper  despatched,  Mrs.  Cass  felt  in  better  spirits 
and  realised  her  fatigue  and  distaste  in  her  surroundings 
had  been  largely  occasioned  by  hunger.  Helena  found  the 
wine  bitter  and  scarcely  touched  it,  the  stem  of  the  grape 
being  used  as  well  as  the  fruit  in  the  brewing;  but  Mrs. 
Cass  in  the  hope  of  coaxing  sleep  drained  her  half  glass. 
Then  the  clerk  took  up  the  candle  and  led  them  above 
stairs.  In  exploring  the  upper  story  he  halted  before  a 
row  of  doors  in  the  passage  on  which  numerals  were 
crudely  painted.  He  unlocked  one  marked  "number  five/' 
opened  it  and  thrust  his  candle  in  for  their  investigation. 

The  cubicle  was  furnished  with  a  tester  bed  with  cur- 
tains. Before  the  single  window  was  a  table  covered  with 
bright  cotton  to  resemble  a  ladies'  dressing-table  with  a 

mirror    above    it.    beside   which    the    room    contained   two 

i  • 

rush-bottomed  chairs  and  a  smaller  table  bearing  a  copper 
jug  and  earthen  basin  for  supplying  the  bath.  The  walls 
bore  faded  yellow  paper  of  bouquets  of  fuchsia  tied  with 
ribbons  and  enlivened  with  flying  and  perching  birds.  Two 
pictures  hung  on  either  side  of  the  bed,  one  of  the  King 
of  Spain  in  his  coronation  robes  and  one  of  a  banderillcro 
seated  silently  watching  a  bull.  The  floor  was  of  terra  cotta 
tjjes,  and  a  small  grass  mat  was  placed  at  the  bedside. 
i  "This  room  is  too  small.  I  want  one  large  enough  for 


.102       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

my  mother  and  myself."  Helena  objected.  "Where  is  the 
one  the  English  ladies  occupied?" 

The  clerk  clapped  one  hand  to  his  forehead  in  an  extrava- 
gant gesture,  indicating  profound  regret,  while  he  rolled 
his  black,  expressive  eyes  in  facile  ingratiation. 

"I  have  a  thousand  regrets  but  that  room  is  occupied.  I 
have  but  one  other  room  in  the  posada  which  is  free." 

They  followed  him  as  he  continued  along  the  passage 
bearing  the  candle  past  the  bend,  down  two  steps  and  threw 
open  the  door  of  "number  eleven."  This  he  was  at  pains 
to  tell  them  was  a  "new"  room,  and,  to  believe  him,  none 
more  comfortable  for  a  lady  in  all  Fuente  la  Higuera  was 
to  be  found,  he  said,  tapping  his  full  chest  in  ratification. 

Mrs.  Cass  opened  the  casement  and  looked  out  into  the 
street.  The  wine-shop  abutted  the  fonda,  from  whence  they 
heard  angry  voices,  followed  by  what  seemed  a  fracas, 
btit  the  clerk  reassured  them  that  the  card  game  was  always 
friendly.  She  realised  that  what  she  mistook  for  anger 
was  the  high-pitched  voices  of  a  Latin  people  speaking  a 
foreign  tongue  interspersed  with  the  strange  gutturals  of 
the  dialect. 

She  glanced  about  her,  saw  there  was  a  general  cleanli- 
ness, felt  of  the  bed,  found  the  mattress  was  filled  with 
straw  and  agreed  hastily  to  occupy  the  room.  The  clerk 
vanished  and  reappeared  shortly  with  their  luggage;  this 
was  divided  between  them,  each  supplied  with  a  candle  and 
then  Miss  Cass  and  her  mother  kissed  and  parted  for  the 
night. 

Mrs.  Cass  performed  the  necessary  tasks  before  retiring, 
undressed  and  let  down  her  hair  before  she  realised  that 
Helena's  bag  held  most  of  her  things.  Covering  herself 
with  a  dressing  gown,  she  unlocked  her  door,  made  her 
way  to  "number  five"  and  tapping,  called: 

"Helena,  it  is  I." 

Miss  Cass  opened  the  door  and  they  both  broke  into 
laughter. 

"Of  course  it's  a  hole,  but  it  is  adorably  quaint.    And  I 


103 

think  we  are  going  to  be  very  much  amused,  don't  you?" 
Helena  asked. 

"I  can  tell  you  better  in  the  morning,"  was  her  mother's 
only  answer,  as  she  selected  her  own  articles  which  in  pre- 
cipitate packing  had  been  jumbled. 

Then  they  kissed  once  more  and  she  returned  to  her  own 
room,  blew  out  her  candle  and  got  into  bed.  Twice  when 
nearly  asleep  she  was  startled  into  sudden  wakefulness  by 
hearing  someone  passing  in  the  street  thrumming  a  guitar, 
followed  by  an  uproar  of  barking  dogs.  Then  sleep  claimed 
her  and  when  she  awoke  again  the  sun  was  streaming  in 
her  window. 

She  consulted  her  watch  and  found  it  was  ten  o'clock. 
She  had  slept  so  soundly  that  voices  from  the  wine-shop 
below  had  in  no  way  interfered.  She  rose,  dressed  and 
carrying  her  handbag  proceeded  down  the  passage  to 
"number  five."  She  knocked  on  Helena's  door,  but  receiv- 
ing no  answer,  was  about  to  turn  away,  fancying  she  had 
breakfasted  and  begun  an  excursion  of  the  town.  Then 
stooping,  she  saw  that  the  key  was  still  in  the  lock  on  the 
inside  of  the  door.  She  knocked  again.  Helena  had  evi- 
dently overslept  herself,  too.  There  was  no  answer.  Hit- 
ting the  door  with  her  fist,  she  called  sharply : 

"Helena,  Helena  ..." 

There  was  a  sound  within  of  bare  feet  on  the  floor.  The 
door  was  unlocked  and  wrenched  open,  and  a  strange  man, 
dark  of  face,  clad  only  in  a  pair  of  drawers  and  soiled  shirt, 
which  bared  his  chest,  stood  before  her. 


XI 

HER  first  overmastering  sensation  was  bewilderment. 
Who  was  this  stranger  ?  What  was  he  doing  in  her  daugh- 
ter's room?  Why  was  the  door  locked  on  the  inside  since 
Helena  obviously  was  not  there? 

She  and  this  half -clad  man  continued  to  exchange  hostile 
glances.  It  was  he  who  spoke  first  and,  without  understand- 
ing him,  she  judged  he  asked  derisively  in  his  own  tongue: 

"In  what  way  can  I  be  of  service  to  you,  sefiora?" 

Mrs.  Cass  realised  her  half-dozen  phrases  were  unequz*/ 
to  the  occasion  and  so  replied  bluntly  in  English: 

"I'm  so  sorry.  I  made  a  mistake  in  the  room.  Please 
excuse  it." 

He  bowed  slightly,  permitting  himself  a  highly-wrought 
smile.  But  she  did  not  notice  the  even  row  of  white  ex- 
posed teeth.  Her  eyes  at  that  moment  had  observed  a  nick 
in  his  forehead,  a  slight  scar  above  an  eyebrow  as  from  a 
knife  thrust.  It  had  left  a  white  indenture  in  his  bronzed 
face,  lifting  one  eyebrow  that  gave  his  expression  a  sin- 
ister quality. 

This  experience  was  just  one  more  misadventure  follow- 
ing last  night's  perilous  drive,  which  decided  her  she  could 
not  leave  Fuente  la  Higuera  with  too  much  dispatch  for 
her  own  satisfaction.  She  was  wondering  how  she  had 
been  so  stupid  as  to  make  a  mistake  in  the  room  when  he 
closed  the  door.  As  he  did  so  she  noticed  the  crude  "num- 
ber five"  painted  on  it.  Then  she  had  not  been  at  error! 
That  was  Helena's  room  after  all,  and  already  the  door 
was  closed  against  her.  At  that  moment  she  heard  the  key 
turn  in  the  lock. 

Mrs.  Cass  was  seized  by  a  condition  of  panic.  She  re- 
mained irresolute  in  the  passage,  feeling  a  growing  irrita- 
tion against  the  benumbing  fear  which  choked  the  working 

104 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       1051 

of  her  brain.  She  attempted  to  reassure  herself  that  she 
had  forgotten  the  number  of  Helena's  room,  but  in  this  she 
was  unsuccessful.  She  recalled  it  beyond  chance  of  mis- 
take. 

Helena,  she  concluded,  had  risen  early  and  gone  out  to 
sketch.  And  as  the  posada  was  full,  this  man  had  taken  this 
opportunity  to  let  himself  into  her  room  and  steal  a  few 
hours'  sleep  during  her  absence.  His  eyes  had  shown  that 
her  knocking  had  wakened  him,  and  he  had  blinked  at  her 
when  he  opened  the  door.  She  would  explain  at  once  to 
the  proprietor  and  insist  upon  the  man's  removal.  They 
were  paying  for  the  usage  of  their  rooms  both  by  day  and 
by  night. 

With  this  intention  Mrs.  Cass  descended  the  stairs  and 
entered  the  room  which  served  as  office  for  the  fonda.  It 
was  here  that  their  supper  had  been  served  on  the  night 
before,  but  this  morning  it  was  deserted.  As  the  fonda 
was  not  supplied  with  bells  there  was  no  means  of  sum- 
moning attendance,  j^fter  a  moment  of  restless  pacing  she 
opened  the  door  which  admitted  to  the  sala,  but  this  was 
dark  and  showed  no  sign  of  being  used.  There  was  a  door 
at  the  rear  of  the  room  and  she  made  her  way  to  it,  opening 
it  cautiously.  It  connected  with  a  kitchen,  an  ill-lit,  smoke- 
filled  room,  provided  with  an  open  fireplace,  where  food  was 
being  cooked  on  a  spit  over  a  handful  of  coals. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  strong,  tough-fibred 
woman,  the  front  of  her  dress  covered  by  a  soiled  drugget 
she  had  tied  about  herself.  She  was  crooning  a  dirge  with- 
out change  of  tone  and  seemingly  without  end  while  en- 
gaged in  removing  the  entrails  from  a  chicken.  One  firm 
hand  gripped  the  fowl,  the  other  was  plunged  within  it, 
blood  staining  her  drugget  and  covering  the  table  before 
her. 

Suddenly  her  dirge  ceased  and  feeling  herself  under  ob- 
servation she  raised  startled  eyes.  For  a  moment  the  two 
women  continued  to  inspect  each  other,  silent,  motionless, 
across  the  dark  kitchen.  Strings  of  onions  and  garlic  and 
bunches  of  herbs  depended  from  the  ceiling,  and  in  the 


io6       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

warm  air  their  essence  was  diffused,  making  the  kitchen 
redolent  of  seasoning.  The  woman  who  seemed  no  longer 
interested  in  Mrs.  Cass  now  removed  a  handful  of  blood- 
covered  entrails  and  continued  at  her  work. 

"Where  is  the  posadero?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head  as  not  understanding. 

"Don't  you  understand  any  English?" 

The  woman  hesitated,  then  shook  her  head  once  again. 
Her  movements  seemed  disconnected  from  any  mental 
workings,  like  those  of  an  automaton. 

At  first  Mrs.  Cass  felt  that  the  woman  was  persistent  in 
her  failure  to  understand,  until  she  attempted  to  ask  her 
in  Spanish  where  the  night  clerk  was.  The  woman,  thus 
lured  to  speech,  replied  glibly,  mumbling  her  native  dialect. 
She  was  evidently  a  Gallegan  and  neither  spoke  nor  under- 
stood any  Spanish,  only  the  idiom  of  the  locality. 

Mrs.  Cass  then  enacted  a  pantomime  to  ask  if  the  seno- 
rita  who  arrived  last  night  had  breakfasted.  But  the  woman 
continued  her  meaningless  oscillations  and  Mrs.  Cass,  real- 
ising her  efforts  to  arrive  at  any  understanding  were  futile, 
left  the  kitchen  to  return  to  the  office. 

She  knew  her  daughter's  enthusiasms  were  mercurial. 
Helena  had  undoubtedly  made  an  early  start  with  her 
sketching  materials,  thinking  to  do  some  work  before  the 
morning  grew  too  warm.  With  this  thought  in  mind,  she 
opened  the  door  and  ventured  into  the  street. 

She  looked  up  and  down  the  narrow  sun-lit  calle,  with 
its  strip  of  shade  under  the  overhanging  eaves.  Asses  were 
being  driven  by  to  market,  women  riding  on  them  seated 
sideways.  And  about  her  was  the  mild  commotion  of  a 
small  town  awake  to  the  duties  of  the  day.  Reaching  the 
end  of  the  street,  Mrs.  Cass  continued  to  the  market-place 
where  burros  stood  with  half-filled  panniers  and  housewives 
bargained.  She  passed  small  shops;  a  cantino  where  empty 
casks  in  use  as  stools  were  tilted  against  the  wall  and  herds- 
men and  arr'ieros  lounged  in  the  doorway.  They  were  pic- 
turesque looking  men,  their  heads  bound  with  coloured 
handkerchiefs,  pirate  fashion,  their  faces  weather  burnt, 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       107 

their  eyes  flashing.  They  laughed  uproariously  and  then 
ceased  of  a  sudden  as  she  passed  them,  recognising  a  for- 
eigner who  was  still  subject  to  unusual  attention.  There 
was  something  in  the  directness  of  their  glance  and  minute- 
ness of  their  scrutiny  which  chilled  her. 

In  front  of  the  church  she  hesitated  and  then  decided  to 
continue  her  search  within.  A  blear-eyed  old  crone  who 
sat  on  the  doorstep  knitting  pulled  aside  the  heavy  leather 
curtain,  and  Mrs.  Cass  entered  a  vault-like  building.  The 
church  was  overlarge  for  the  size  of  the  community  and 
all  its  wealth  seemed  to  be  centred  there.  The  effigy  of  the 
virgin  on  the  altar  was  robed  in  velvet  with  hoop  skirts 
and  slashed  bodice,  a  nimbus  behind  her  head,  pearls  on 
her  bosom  and  preposterous  jewels  on  her  hands.  The 
Holy  Child  wore  a  loin-cloth  of  rare  Spanish  lace,  and  a 
petticoat  of  the  same  was  artfully  seen  from  under  the 
virgin's  dress.  Ruby  lights  burned  at  the  altar,  but  in  spite 
of  the  warmth  outside  the  church  was  cold,  musty  and  un- 
tenanted,  and  after  a  brief  glance  Mrs.  Cass  emerged  and 
made  her  way  back  to  the  fonda. 

The  office  was  still  unoccupied  and  there  was  no  evidence 
of  Helena  having  been  there.  Mrs.  Cass  had  never  felt 
more  helpless  or  dependent  upon  her  quick-witted  daughter 
than  at  that  moment.  She  proceeded  once  more  to  the 
kitchen  and  opened  the  door.  The  woman  was  still  at  work 
but  this  time  Mrs.  Cass  decided  to  forego  all  preambles. 
(The  only  way  to  disabuse  herself  of  mounting  fears  was 
to  investigate  room  "number  five,"  and  since  the  clerk  and 
proprietor  were  not  there  this  ignorant  woman  would  serve 
as  well  as  anyone  else.  She  beckoned  to  her,  but  the 
woman  remained  inert,  watching  her  with  a  stupidity  which 
seemed  too  well  conceived  to  be  anything  but  pretense.) 
Mrs.  Cass  then  crossed  the  kitchen,  and  taking  hold  of  the 
woman's  arm  firmly  led  her  back  to  the  office  and  upstairs, 
not  halting  until  she  reached  the  upper  hall.  Here  indi- 
cating the  door  on  which  "number  five"  had  been  painted 
she  made  a  pretense  of  knocking. 

The  woman  hesitated  only  a  moment  and  then  rapped 


io8       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

heavily  on  the  door.  She  received  no  immediate  reply  and 
after  a  brief  wait  repeated  it.  They  remained  expectant, 
waiting.  .  .  .  Then  growing  impatient  the  woman  struck 
the  door  with  all  the  strength  of  her  knuckles.  This  time 
she  succeeded  in  being  heard.  The  impact  of  bare  feet  on 
the  floor,  a  moment's  pause,  then  a  careful  hand  on  the 
lock  and  the  key  was  turned.  The  door  opened  and  Mrs. 
Cass  faced  the  same  man.  He  was  still  attired  as  before. 
His  dark,  malevolent  eyes  beneath  his  scarred  brow  watched 
her,  resenting  her  second  intrusion. 

Without  knowing  why  she  felt  suddenly  afraid.  Of 
course  it  was  not  possible  that  Helena  was  in  the  room. 
And  yet  she  wished  to  make  certain.  Not  relaxing  her 
hold  on  the  woman  beside  her  she  pushed  past  the  stranger 
until  they  were  inside  his  door. 

At  this  he  mumbled  several  words  which  dropped  out  the 
corner  of  his  mouth  as  though  by  themselves.  The  kitchen 
maid  replied  in  his  own  tongue  and  after  that  they  remained 
silent,  nor  did  Mrs.  Cass  speak.  She  was  at  once  so 
amazed  and  completely  bewildered  by  the  room  she  had 
entered  that  there  were  no  words  to  clothe  her  excitement. 

In  spite  of  the  reassuring  number  on  the  door,  this  was 
not  Helena's  room.  She  remembered  every  detail  of  the 
night  before  when  she  had  been  seated  on  the  edge  of 
Helena's  bed,  selecting  articles  from  her  daughter's  bag.  The 
walls  of  this  room  were  white  like  her  own.  In  a  corner 
was  placed  a  pallet  bed,  above  which  a  silver  Christ  was 
nailed  to  an  ebony  cross  on  the  wall.  This  was  decorated 
with  a  bit  of  dried  palm  and  olive.  In  front  of  the  window 
was  an  old  upholstered  chair,  now  disgorging  some  of  its 
stuffing,  and  across  a  corner  a  wardrobe,  the  door  of  which 
hung  listlessly  open,  showing  it  filled  with  a  miscellany  of 
man's  apparel.  A  single  picture  was  on  the  wall  and  a 
closer  scrutiny  disclosed  it  as  a  crudely  proportioned  oleo- 
graph of  "Suzanne  at  Her  Bath."  About  the  room  was 
scattered  a  disorderly  litter  proving  a  protracted  tenancy, 
and  behind  the  door  an  ornate  mule's  bridle  hung  upon  a 
Peg. 


SHE  WHO  .WAS  HELENA  CASS       109 

Asking  his  pardon  as  best  she  could,  Mrs.  Cass  with- 
drew. And  yet  the  moment  the  door  was  closed  she  felt 
she  wished  to  give  it  closer  inspection.  She  gave  up  all 
thought  of  talking  to  the  static  kitchen  maid  beside  her. 
There  was  nothing  gained  by  addressing  questions  to  com- 
plete inanition. 

She  indicated  the  door  of  room  number  four  and  in- 
structed that  the  woman  knock.  She  opened  the  door  and 
Mrs.  Cass  upon  entering  saw  that  it  was  unoccupied.  But 
this  again  in  no  way  resembled  the  room  which  the  night 
clerk  had  shown  them.  Thinking  she  might  have  been  con- 
fused as  to  its  position,  since  it  could  not  have  been  "number 
five,"  Mrs.  Cass  insisted  that  every  door  be  opened.  She 
continued  her  inspection  until  she  had  seen  each  room  on 
the  second  floor.  But  none  had  yellow  walls  figured  with 
birds  and  fuchsias.  Nor  did  any  room  contain  a  tester  bed 
with  curtains,  or  any  of  the  furniture  which  she  remem- 
bered. 

And  yet  it  was  absurd  to  imagine  that  the  room  had  not 
existed  precisely  as  she  recalled  it.  She  remembered 
even  the  pictures  of  the  King  of  Spain  in  his  coronation 
robes  and  a  torero  seated  intrepidly  facing  a  bull,  a  bande- 
rillo  in  each  hand ;  the  dressing  table  which  held  a  red  pox- 
marked  cushion ;  rush-bottomed  chairs ;  curtains  at  the  win- 
dow. And  above  all  the  colour  of  the  pompous  fuchsias 
on  the  wall,  the  blue  ribbons  that  tied  them,  and  the  green 
love-birds  that  hovered  above. 

What  had  first  been  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  now  became 
a  matter  of  terror.  Where  was  Helena?  Although  she 
knew  in  her  heart  her  daughter  was  not  in  the  house  she 
could  not  allow  herself  to  think  so  until  a  systematic  search 
had  been  made.  The  clerk  had  said  at  the  time  of  their 
arrival  that  the  posada  was  full.  But  investigation  proved 
that  the  only  rooms  which  were  occupied  were  her  own 
and  that  of  the  stranger  with  the  scar  on  his  brow.  The 
fact  of  having  trapped  the  clerk  in  that  falsehood  only 
increased  her  apprehensions. 

But  her  search  had  not  lain  bare  a  single  evidence  of  her 


no       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

daughter's  occupancy.  She  told  herself  she  might  have 
forgotten  the  room,  seen  only  by  candlelight,  but  Helena's 
dressing  bag  was  not  discovered  nor  her  brushes  nor  any 
article  of  hers.  The  big  drawing-box  in  which  she  had 
packed  so  many  more  materials  than  she  would  ever  use 
was  missing.  Even  though  she  had  left  expeditiously  for  a 
morning's  work  she  would  not  hamper  herself  with  useless 
impedimenta.  But  there  was  not  a  single  reminder.  Not 
a  veil,  nor  a  handkerchief,  nor  a  hairpin. 

Mrs.  Cass  felt  suddenly  faint.  All  generation  of  thought 
had  become  clogged  by  horror.  They  had  arrived  last  night 
without  premonition  of  disaster,  and  all  at  once,  without 
warning,  Helena  had  vanished.  She  tried  to  brace  herself 
against  the  shock  that  such  fancies  were  the  result  of  faint- 
ness.  She  had  not  breakfasted.  And  then  remembering  the 
long  dreamless  sleep  of  the  night  before,  it  occurred  to  her 
the  wine  might  have  been  drugged.  After  that  the  thought 
of  both  food  and  drink  alike  became  abhorrent. 

Was  it  possible  that  this  whitewalled  room,  with  its  cur- 
tainless  window,  after  dark  was  transformed  and  clothed 
with  yellow  walls  covered  with  bouquets  of  fuchsias  tied 
with  ribbons  and  ornamented  with  flying  and  perching 
birds?  She  knew  the  ignorant  peasant  believed  in  people 
metamorphosed  into  animals  and  birds,  and  houses  being 
spirited  away  and  returned.  After  all  there  was  nothing  in 
the  beliefs  of  the  supernatural  too  incredible  to  satisfy  the 
mind  of  the  Spanish  countrymen  with  the  superstitions  of 
the  Moors  as  a  background  to  present  plausibility.  Then 
she  wondered  if  she  were  losing  her  mind  to  allow  her 
thoughts  to  stray  to  such  abstractions.  She  forced  herself 
to  choke  them  off.  She  must  recall  the  moment  in  hand, 
and  what  lay  before  ner. 

She  was  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  gripping  the 
hand  rail.  There  was  one  more  thing  left  to  do  and  that 
was  a  search  of  the  lower  floor.  She  had  thought  the  room 
was  "number  five,"  but  it  had  been  proved  conclusively 
that  she  was  in  error.  She  had  thought  the  room  had 
been  on  the  same  floor  as  her  own,  but  possibly  this  had 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       in 

been  a  mistake  too.  Even  while  she  encouraged  this  fiction 
she  led  the  kitchen  maid  down  the  stairs  and  began  a  thor- 
ough search  through  the  rooms  adjoining  the  office.  But 
this  search  proved  in  no  way  enlightening  until  she  came 
to  one  door  which  the  Spanish  woman  declined  to  open. 

"Why  can't  you  open  this?"  Mrs.  Cass  called  out  excit- 
edly, speaking  in  English. 

Her  few  words  of  Spanish  had  now  deserted  her  utterly. 
Under  stress  she  spoke  frequently  even  though  she  knew 
she  was  unintelligible  to  the  woman.  The  kitchen  maid's 
reply  was  a  mere  jangle  of  sound.  It  meant  nothing  to  her. 
As  the  woman  refused  to  knock,  Mrs.  Cass  hammered  on 
the  door.  Then  discovering  it  was  unlocked  she  tore  it 
open. 

The  room  was  occupied.  There  was  a  bed  opposite  the 
door,  and  a  man  struggled  up  angrily,  enraged  by  the  inter- 
ruption, and  then  seeing  the  intruder,  his  expression 
changed.  She  recognised  the  man  as  the  clerk  of  the  night 
before.  She  was  conscious  of  a  repellence  as  suave,  urbane, 
he  inclined  his  head  in  recognition  of  her  as  though  forcing 
herself  into  his  room  were  a  most  natural  procedure. 

"You  speak  English?"  Mrs.  Cass  cried. 

"A  leetle." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Pedro,  senora." 

"You  admitted  us  when  we  arrived  last  night.  My  daugh- 
ter and  myself.  You  assigned  room  number  five  to  my 
daughter,  didn't  you?" 

Don  Pedro,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  being  addressed, 
opened  his  fine  black  eyes  with  dismay. 

"Room  number  five,"  he  said,  now  speaking  in  Spanish, 
and  in  her  excitement  language  seemed  to  matter  little,  for 
Mrs.  Cass  understood  him.  "Oh,  no,  senora.  That  is  im- 
possible. Don  Rodolfo  has  lived  in  that  room  for  many 
weeks.  This  gentleman  has  been  my  guest  since  the  middle 
of  July.  He  has  honoured  my  miserable  house  that  long." 

"Then  what  room  did  you  assign  to  my  daughter?" 


ii2       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"Senora,  I  do  not  know  this  daughter  of  whom  you 
speak." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"What  I  say,  honoured  sefiora." 

"Have  you  forgotten  that  you  saw  my  daughter  last  night, 
ordered  supper  for  two,  and  afterwards  carried  her  bags 
upstairs  with  mine  and  gave  us  two  separate  rooms,  be- 
cause you  said  the  fonda  was  crowded  ?" 

"A  thousand  regrets,  but  I  do  not  recall  it.  When  you 
arrived  here  last  night  I  admitted  you,  that  I  remember 
well,  but  you  came  alone." 


XII 

His  words,  uttered  with  that  complete  courtesy  which 
was  his  natural  speech,  chilled  her.  With  perfect  calm,  his 
eyes  on  hers,  he  told  her  he  had  never  seen  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Cass  rallied  after  a  moment  of  speechlessness. 
There  was  something  in  the  facility  and  directness  of  the 
man's  lying  which  stunned  her.  His  motives  were  impene- 
trable, and  there  seemed  now  a  terrible  malignancy  in  his 
ease  of  manner  and  pliancy  of  his  smile. 

"I  would  like  to  see  you  in  the  office  a  moment,  Don 
Pedro." 

"It  shall  be  as  the  senora  wishes,"  he  replied. 

He  rose  and  slipped  incredibly  small  arched  feet  into  his 
slippers.  She  returned  to  the  office  and  a  moment  later  he 
followed  her,  appearing  in  the  adjusted  costume  of  the 
evening  before,  a  nightshirt  and  a  pair  of  trousers  bound 
by  a  faded  red  /a/a,  a  hastily  rolled  cigarette  hung  moist- 
ened to  his  lower  lip. 

From  the  moment  in  which  the  man  lied  she  found  her- 
self unable  to  think  connectedly.  That  Don  Pedro  was  a 
rascal  was  not  altogether  a  surprise.  But  that  the  man 
should  be  a  criminal  as  well  was  past  belief.  And  yet  he 
declared  without  any  of  the  embarrassment  of  dissimula- 
tion that  she  had  arrived  alone.  He  had  seen  no  daughter. 
The  statement  was  so  amazing  that  she  was  unable  to  think 
of  any  motive  strong  enough  to  supply  impulse  for  his  lie. 

Mrs.  Cass  had  only  one  proof  of  Helena's  arrival  last 
night  with  which  to  convict  him.  And  now  that  he  had  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  office  she  asked  to  see  the  visitors'  book 
in  which  they  had  both  signed  upon  their  arrival.  She  felt 
craftily  that  she  had  snared  him  here.  Keeping  close  to 
his  side  so  that  he  could  not  remove  a  page  from  the  book 
without  her  seeing  him,  she  crossed  to  the  desk.  He  went 

"3 


ii4       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

behind  it,  opened  a  cupboard,  removed  the  book  and  handed 
it  to  her.  She  turned  to  the  last  page.  Inserted  between 
hinges  of  paper  was  the  card  which  had  been  given  her  last 
night.  Beneath  the  date  she  read  the  superscription  in 
her  own  hand : 

"Mrs.  J.  de  W.  Cass,  New  York." 

That  was  all  that  the  page  contained.  He  had  remem- 
bered to  destroy  the  card  on  which  Helena  had  written 
her  own. 

She  turned  excitedly  to  the  kitchen  maid. 

"You  remember  very  well  that  you  prepared  supper  for 
two  last  night,  don't  you  ?" 

The  woman  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"She  not  understand  English,"  Don  Pedro  reminded  her. 

And  then  as  Mrs.  Cass's  fear  and  despair  seemed  com- 
plete, he  turned  to  the  woman  and  began  to  speak  to  her 
earnestly  in  their  native  idiom.  The  woman  listened  in 
what  appeared  amazement,  showing  the  whites  of  her  eyes 
and  shook  her  head  several  times  in  denial.  Then  Don 
Pedro  turned  to  his  guest,  resuming  in  English : 

"I  translate  your  question.  She  not  see  this  lady  and 
she  say  supper  was  just  for  one.  The  senora  is  very  tired. 
If  she  would  lie  down  she  would  be  m-much,  much  better." 

She  felt  the  sudden  helplessness  of  the  ponderous  Anglo- 
Saxon  mind  before  the  strange,  inscrutable  workings  of  a 
different  race.  This  man  seemed  less  Spaniard  than  Arab. 
The  cut  of  feature  was  that  of  Africa,  the  bold,  appraising 
eyes,  the  controlled  yet  passionate  lips.  His  mouth  was 
like  a  pomegranate  that  had  been  cut  in  two,  the  lining 
blood-red,  the  teeth  perfect,  even  and  strong  as  those  of 
some  ferocious  animal  of  the  jungle.  The  man's  habits 
and  customs  were  inscrutable  to  her,  the  processes  of  his 
mind  impossible  for  her  to  understand  or  circumvent. 

His  graceful,  nerveless  hand,  which  lay  along  the  top  of 
the  desk  was  as  small  as  a  woman's,  a  pale  brown,  perfectly 
formed.  The  fingers  were  like  tapers,  and  the  nails  well 
cared  for,  and  she  noticed  again  that  on  the  little  finger 
being  grotesquely  long.  As  she  looked  at  his  hands  the 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       115 

long,  narrow  nails  seemed  to  her  all  at  once  the  claws  of  a 
carnivorous  animal.  She  was  conscious  of  a  scent  which 
clung  to  him,  potent,  masculine,  but  not  unpleasant.  He  was 
watching  her,  his  fine  eyes  glowing.  He  expelled  smoke 
through  his  nostrils,  and  then  opened  his  lips  as  though 
about  to  speak,  showing  the  soft,  red  lining  of  his  mouth. 
She  had  tried  in  the  last  seconds  to  inoculate  herself  against, 
fear  of  the  man,  but  fear,  like  a  poison,  had  spread  through 
her. 

Suddenly,  without  a  word  of  explanation,  Mrs.  Cass 
turned,  opened  the  door  and  vanished  into  the  street.  It 
was  impossible  for  her  to  continue  to  argue  with  him.  The 
woman  being  in  his  service  was  already  bought  and  so  was 
of  no  use.  Or,  if  not,  she  at  least  could  not  understand, 
and  the  questions  he  translated  were  so  distorted  as  not  to 
be  of  assistance  to  her.  And  the  woman  had  not  seen 
Helena.  She  realised  suddenly  that  they  had  arrived  so 
late  the  night  before  that  she  had  seen  no  one  in  the 
streets  whereby  she  could  substantiate  her  claim. 

Leaving  the  fonda,  she  was  moving  without  objective,  her 
one  idea  being  to  find  a  guardia  civile  and  return  with  him 
and  place  Don  Pedro  under  arrest.  But  she  had  continued 
some  distance  without  sighting  any  member  of  the  law. 
Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  the  alcalde  of  the  barrio  was 
invested  with  greater  power,  and  she  would  do  better  to 
explain  to  him  what  had  taken  place. 

She  stopped  men  in  the  street  to  enquire  where  the  alcalde 
lived,  and  was  almost  in  despair  in  not  making  her  request 
understood.  At  length  she  received  directions  which  were 
clear  to  her  and  made  her  way  to  his  house.  She  knocked 
vigorously  on  the  door.  There  followed  a  moment  of 
maddening  deliberation ;  the  door  was  opened  by  a  middle- 
aged  man,  with  grey  hair,  whom  she  concluded  was  the 
alcalde  himself. 

Her  pent-up  excitement  broke  in  a  torrent  of  incoher- 
ence. English  sprinkled  with  Spanish.  The  alcalde,  see- 
ing the  stranger  was  labouring  under  great  stress,  led  her 
within  amidst  expostulation  for  calm  and  reason.  The 


ii6       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

room  they  entered  was  comfortless  but  she  did  not  notice  her 
surroundings  as  he  drew  a  chair  out  from  the  wall  and 
with  a  courtesy  she  now  recognised  as  part  of  every  Span- 
iard, begged  her  to  ue  seated.  He  offered  her  a  glass  of 
wine,  and  though  faint,  she  refused  it,  remembering  the 
fiery  aguardiente  she  had  tasted  on  the  night  before  and 
its  results. 

Even  after  she  had  told  him  her  story  as  best  she  could  he 
continued  to  look  at  her  in  doubt.  She  explained  that  she 
and  her  daughter  had  arrived  the  night  before  from  El 
Cerrito.  The  train  had  been  delayed  and  they  had  reached 
Fuente  la  Higuera  at  midnight,  had  gone  to  the  posada, 
had  supper  and  been  shown  to  two  small  rooms,  and  then 
parted  for  the  night.  In  the  morning  she  had  been  unable 
to  find  her  daughter  and  upon  enquiring  of  the  clerk,  he 
said  that  no  one  had  arrived  with  her.  This  was  amazing 
enough,  but  the  alcalde  wished  to  know  if  Helena  had  not 
left  a  note  in  her  room  before  leaving,  since  it  was  patent 
to  him  that  she  had  run  away.  Here  Mrs.  Cass  had  to 
confess  the  most  irrational  point  of  her  story.  She  had 
not  only  been  unable  to  find  her  daughter  that  morning,  but 
no  more  could  she  discover  her  daughter's  room.  It  had 
vanished  during  the  night.  And  at  present  there  was  no 
room  at  the  posada  which  bore  any  resemblance  to  it. 

At  this  the  man  shook  his  head  and  eyed  his  visitor  with 
a  sort  of  kindly  compassion.  Mrs.  Cass,  beginning  to  de- 
spair of  making  him  believe  her,  now  broke  into  tears.  Her 
very  evident  distress  moved  him  and  he  called,  "Filar, 
Pilar,"  to  a  serving  woman  who  lurked  in  the  darkened 
passage.  A  middle-aged  woman  entered,  supplying  the 
alcalde  with  his  hat  and  stick,  and  he  set  out  to  accompany 
her  back  to  her  lodging. 

Fortunately  she  possessed  an  accurate  sense  of  direction 
and  remembered  in  spite  of  the  similarity  of  the  narrow 
streets  the  way  she  had  come.  Reaching  the  fonda  she 
found  the  door  closed  and  anticipated  that  Don  Pedro  had 
bolted  it  against  her.  She  knew  instinctively  he  had  gone 
at  once  to  her  room,  destroyed  what  possessions  she  had 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       117 

left  and  would  further  repudiate  all  knowledge  of  her. 
She  was,  therefore,  surprised  when  the  door  yielded  easily 
to  her  hand.  The  office  was  deserted  but  the  kitchen-maid 
was  at  work  and  went  in  search  of  Don  Pedro,  who  had 
gone  to  the  wine-shop  around  the  corner. 

When  the  woman  returned  with  him  a  moment  later,  his 
equipment  for  the  day  was  the  same  as  when  Mrs.  Cass 
had  last  seen  him  except  that  he  had  supplemented  a  coat 
to  cover  his  nightshirt.  He  was  in  no  way  surprised  by 
the  advent  of  the  Alcalde  and  greeted  him  as  a  friend  in 
his  most  casual  manner.  Don  Pedro,  it  seemed,  was  not 
the  night  clerk  of  the  Posada  as  Mrs.  Cass  had  supposed, 
but  the  owner,  and  Maria  de  la  Concepcione  was  not  the 
kitchen-maid  but  his  wife,  who  acted  as  cook  and  took  care 
of  their  guests.  Don  Pedro  had  travelled  quite  extensively 
in  Spain  and  engaged  in  other  trades  before  taking  the 
fonda,  but  Maria  de  la  Concepcion  was  a  mountaineer's 
daughter  and  had  never  been  but  a  few  miles  from  Fuente 
la  Higuera. 

"The  senora  did  not  believe  my  word.  She  want  another 
prove  I  no  liar,"  he  said  with  his  deferential  smile,  which 
now  seemed  to  have  lost  some  of  its  application. 

And  Mrs.  Cass,  feeling  there  was  nothing  disputable  in 
the  assertion,  agreed.  The  alcalde  explained  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  understand  the  Senora  Inglesa  and  asked 
for  Don  Pedro's  version  of  what  had  transpired.  This  he 
told  with  his  habitual  flow  of  words  and  ease  of  narration. 
The  lady  had  arrived  last  night,  partaken  of  supper  and 
gone  to  her  room. 

"Just  a  moment,"  the  alcalde  interrupted.  "The  lady  you 
say  was  travelling  alone  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  should  a  lady  come  to  this  town,  three  hours  dis- 
tance from  El  Cdrrito,  alone?  Has  she  friends  here?" 

"None." 

"Then  what  brought  her  here  ?" 

"The  reason  for  that,  my  friend,  I  will  explain  later. 
The  lady  is  undoubtedly  eccentric.  This  morning  she  comes 


n8       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

downstairs  and  asks  my  Maria  for  her  daughter.  My  good 
wife  and  I  are  naturally  amazed.  There  is  no  daughter. 
The  lady  came  alone." 

"I  shall  not  be  satisfied,  Don  Pedro,  until  I  have  gone 
over  your  house." 

"Willingly,  my  friend.    That  was  what  I  should  suggest." 

The  alcalde  then  enquired  of  Mrs.  Cass  if  she  remem- 
bered the  number  of  her  daughter's  room,  and  she  said, 
without  hesitating,  that  she  believed  it  was  number  five. 
At  this  Don  Pedro  took  a  ring  of  pass  keys  from  the  cup- 
board behind  the  desk,  they  mounted  above  stairs,  Don 
Pedro  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and  instructed  them  to 
enter  the  room  in  question. 

Don  Rodolfo,  interrupted  in  his  midday  sleep,  sat  up  in 
bed,  flung  back  a  thatch  of  thick,  black  hair  which  fell  over 
his  eyes,  and  looked  at  the  group  that  stood  before  his 
bed.  He  seemed  insensitive  to  the  publicity  of  their  pro- 
ceedings and  only  annoyed  at  being  awakened. 

The  alcalde  enquired  if  Don  Rodolfo  had  occupied  his 
bed  that  night.  He  was  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"How  long  have  you  lived  in  this  house?" 

"Since  the  middle  of  July." 

"And  you  have  been  in  possession  of  this  room  all  of 
that  time?" 

"The  same." 

He  then  turned  to  Mrs.  Cass,  asking  if  she  recognised  this 
room  as  her  daughter's. 

She  had,  during  their  conversation,  examined  it  minutely 
and  realised  it  resembled  Helena's  only  in  the  fact  that  the 
floor  was  tiled,  like  all  others,  and  that  it  possessed  but 
one  window.  She  attempted  to  describe  the  colour  of  the 
walls,  the  bouquets  of  fuchsia  and  the  birds  ornamenting  it. 
Don  Pedro  reaffirmed  that  he  never  had  any  such  room, 
had  never  seen  such  paper,  and  unlocked  other  doors  to 
support  his  denial.  There  were  pink  walls,  and  grey  walls 
bespattered  with  pink  roses,  and  whitewashed  walls,  but 
none  that  bore  out  her  description.  At  length  he  unlocked 
and  opened  the  door  to  Mrs.  Cass's  own  room  and  she  saw 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       119 

her  bag  and  her  few  possessions  exactly  where  she  had  left 
them. 

There  remained  little  use  in  continuing  the  search.  Don 
Pedro's  story  was  direct  and  seemed  without  duplicity. 
Don  Rodolfo  was  known  to  have  remained  at  the  posada 
some  time  and  it  seemed  not  unlikely  that  the  room  was  his, 
as  he  claimed.  Mrs.  Cass's  explanation  that  her  daughter 
was  an  artist  and  had  journeyed  thither  to  sketch  appeared 
doubtful  since  there  was  no  evidence  of  materials.  And 
Fuente  la  Higuera  was  indeed  a  curious  place  for  ladies  to 
travel  by  themselves. 

As  Don  Pedro  had  been  successful  in  obstructing  all 
investigations,  their  efforts  led  to  nothing.  Mrs.  Cass  re- 
quested that  the  alcalde  accompany  her  to  shops  while  she 
purchased  a  few  necessities.  This  he  courteously  agreed 
to  do  when  he  learned  that  she  was  afraid  to  eat  anything 
prepared  by  Maria  de  la  Concepcione.  Her  story  that  Don 
Pedro  had  been  struck  by  Helena's  beauty  and  the  exotic 
appeal  of  a  foreign  type  now  assumed  less  colour,  since  it 
was  discovered  that  he  possessed  a  wife. 

She  bought  brown  bread,  goat's  milk,  figs  and  Murviedo 
cheese  and  seated  herself  upon  the  church  steps  to  eat  her 
meal.  Her  head  was  racked  with  pain  from  hunger  and 
exhaustion  and  her  nerves  clamourous.  She  knew  that  in 
spite  of  Don  Pedro's  proof,  satisfactory  as  it  was  and  all 
encompassing,  that  the  kindly  man  at  her  side  was  in  reality 
a  friend.  She  knew  that  he  believed,  in  spite  of  distortion, 
that  her  story  held  a  seed  of  truth  and  they  would  yet  ar- 
rive at  the  facts,  no  matter  how  cleverly  they  were  overlaid 
with  falsehood.  He  continued  to  ask  her  questions  in  Span- 
ish which  harassed  her  without  being  able  to  reply.  Ex- 
haustion had  dulled  her  faculties,  so  that  she  was  no  longer 
capable  of  making  shrewd  guesses  as  to  what  was  meant. 

For  some  time  they  shared  the  church  steps  in  silence. 
She  had  finished  her  luncheon  and  yet  was  too  tired  to 
recommence  her  search.  But  her  anxiety  increased  every 
moment.  She  was  caught  in  a  net  of  non-comprehension 
from  which  it  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  extricate  her- 


120       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

self.  The  fact  that  two  women  of  means  should  arrive  at 
Fuente  la  Higuera  without  other  purpose  than  to  allow 
Helena  to  sketch  was  incomprehensible  to  her  guide.  To 
him  women  of  the  upper  classes  were  without  liberty,  and 
when  they  travelled  it  was  under  the  care  of  a  man's  escort 
and  for  a  more  definite  aim. 

Mrs.  Cass  had  despaired  of  making  herself  clear  to  the 
alcalde  when  a  fresh  means  of  disentanglement  occurred 
to  her.  For  the  first  time  she  remembered  the  cocker o  in 
whose  diligence  they  had  been  so  recklessly  driven  on  the 
night  before.  The  man  was  probably  in  the  town.  It  was 
imperative  that  they  find  him.  He  could  not  fail  to  recall 
Helena  and  he  would  remember  that  she  had  paid  him 
several  pesetas  beyon<3  his  charge.  His  word  would  be 
sufficient  to  give  the  lie  to  all  of  Don  Pedro's  denials.  And 
with  him  on  her  side  it  would  be  a  simple  matter  to  engage 
the  service  of  the  guardia  civile,  who  would  soon  arrive  at 
the  truth. 

Mrs.  Cass  had  been  in  despair.  Suddenly  she  felt  buoy- 
ant with  hope.  All  that  was  necessary  was  for  her  to  have 
her  story  believed.  Then  with  the  slightest  evidence  of  the 
truth  Don  Pedro  could  be  terrorised.  Under  penalty  of 
commitment  he  would  be  forced  to  admit  his  crime. 

Before  she  allowed  herself  to  think  further  she  rose  im- 
patiently from  the  church  steps.  She  explained  her  plan 
to  the  alcalde  as  best  she  could.  At  first  he  was  expostula- 
tory  and  full  of  questions  which  she  did  not  understand. 
But  at  length,  as  her  intentions  became  more  lucid,  the 
kindly  man  agreed  with  enthusiasm.  He  knew  the  ventct 
where  the  cochero  could  be  found  at  that  hour.  He  would 
lead  the  senora  to  him  at  once  and  they  would  arrive  at 
conclusions  shortly. 

They  set  out  toward  the  outskirts  of  the  town  where  they 
drew  up  before  a  stone  built  hut.  The  alcalde  went  within, 
returning  with  the  cochero  who  had  driven  them  on  the 
night  before.  He  seemed  sleepy  and  came  out  blinking 
from  the  darkened,  windowless  interior,  the  room  lighted 
only  by  the  open  door;  the  floor  was  made  of  beaten  clay. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       121 

In  the  brilliant  sunlight  he  looked  as  though  he  had  been 
interrupted  at  his  siesta.  But  Mrs.  Cass  saw  that  the  man 
was  sober  and  her  spirits  rose. 

"Angel,"  the  alcalde  said,  "you  drove  this  senora  last 
night  from  El  Cerrito.  You  recall  that  ?" 

"Si,  senor." 

"The  senora  generously  gave  you  several  pesetas  above 
her  fare?" 

The  man  looked  at  Mrs.  Cass  with  increased  interest. 

"Now  what  I  want  to  know  is,  did  you  have  any  other 
passenger  in  the  diligence,  or  did  the  senora  make  the  trip 
alone?" 

"She  came  alone,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"One  minute,  Angel.  Are  you  certain?  Was  she  not 
accompanied  by  a  beautiful  senorita?  Inglesa?  A  young 
lady  with  brown  hair,  and  fair  skin,  wearing  a  blue  dress 
and  hat,  a  veil,  gloves,  and  carrying,  this  lady  says,  a 
walking  stick?" 

The  cochero  looked  at  them  stupidly  and  made  no  an- 
swer. 

"Come,  my  man.  You  know  if  this  lady  was  a  passenger. 
Why  don't  you  speak  ?" 

The  man  hesitated  and  then  remarked: 

"  You  see,  amigo,  it  was  like  this.  I  had  tasted  wine  at 
El  Cerrito  and  at  the  halfway  house  where  I  often  change 
mules.  In  short,  I  was  very  drunk.  I  remember  there  was 
a  lady  who  paid  me  well.  What  she  looked  like  that  I  have 
forgotten.  I  remember  only  one.  If  it  is  this  lady  or 
another  I  cannot  say." 

Mrs.  Cass  knew  by  the  man's  expression  that  she  had 
failed.  The  inebriate  muleteer  spoke  the  truth,  but  he  was 
of  no  use  to  them.  Nor  could  any  efforts  to  prompt  a  fail- 
ing memory  prove  of  any  assistance.  To  all  the  alcalde's 
questions  he  made  the  same  reply.  He  did  not  remember. 

They  left  him  and  he  threw  himself  down  in  the  narrow 
strip  of  shade  before  the  building.  They  returned  to  the 
fonda,  Mrs.  Cass  disconsolate,  her  guide  deeply  puzzled. 
They  were  greeted  by  Don  Pedro,  who  inquired  of  the 


122       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Spaniard  if  they  had  seen  anyone  who  remembered  having 
had  a  glimpse  of  the  daughter  that  the  senora  lamented. 
To  this  question  the  alcalde  shook  his  head. 

"No.  We  have  seen  the  cochero  but  he  does  not  recall 
the  young  lady." 

Don  Pedro  made  a  strange  grimace;  speaking  rapidly  in 
Spanish,  he  said: 

"Is  it  not  as  I  assured  you?  Vaya!  The  senora  is  not 
only  eccentric,  she  is  worse." 

He  tapped  his  head,  giving  a  significant  gesture  as  he 
looked  at  Mrs.  Cass.  And  the  older  man  shook  his  head 
in  pained  accent. 

"The  lady  is  not  right.  She  may  have  had  some  grief. 
Who  knows?  At  all  events  there  is  no  daughter,  you  may 
rest  assured  to  that.  I  doubt  if  there  ever  was  one.  On 

many  subjects  the  lady  is  sane,  but  on  that  one  she  is " 

And  he  tapped  his  head  once  more  and  lowered  one  lid 
over  his  eye.  "You  believe  me?" 

And  the  alcalde  nodded  gravely.  He  had  just  arrived  at 
the  same  conclusion. 

Mrs.  Cass,  who  had  remained  standing  in  the  doorway, 
had  not  been  party  to  this  colloquy.  But  she  knew  without 
words  that  she  had  lost  an  ally  in  the  alcalde.  The  mule- 
teer's failure  to  recall  her  daughter  had  convinced  him 
that  she,  like  her  luggage  and  her  vanished  room,  were  all 
a  part  of  some  partial  delirium.  And  without  his  assistance 
she  knew  she  was  powerless  to  find  Helena.  No  one  in  the 
town  would  believe  in  her  existence. 

Having  won  the  alcalde  to  his  own  point  of  view,  Don 
Pedro  had  now  offered  that  worthy  a  glass  of  aguardiente 
and  they  removed  to  the  neighbouring  venta.  As  they 
passed  Mrs.  Cass  they  saluted  her,  Don  Pedro  with  a  ges- 
ture of  what  seemed  exaggerated  respect.  She  thought  once 
to  intercept  the  alcalde  and  attempt  to  convince  him  of  her 
sincerity  and  then  realised  it  was  futile.  He  was  already 
lost  to  her  cause.  To  him  her  anxiety  was  dementia  and 
would  no  longer  be  given  an  ear.  She  was  desperate  now. 
Her  hopes  at  the  lowest  rung.  There  remained  but  one 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       123 

man  who  could  render  her  assistance.  All  at  once  she  had 
thought  of  Mr.  Tooker,  the  American  Consul  in  Madrid, 
who  had  instructed  her  to  call  upon  him  if  he  could  be  of 
any  service. 

She  sought  out  Angel,  the  cochero,  once  more,  whom 
she  had  found  lying  face  downward  on  the  paving  stones 
before  the  venta,  where  he  had  thrown  himself,  while  flies 
hovered  and  crossed  in  the  air  above  him.  As  she  made 
her  terms  with  him  she  removed  silver  from  her  bag  to 
conclude  her  bargain.  He  sat  watching  her  as  she  talked, 
a  fly  on  his  cheek  encircling  an  inflamed  eye,  drawing  closer 
and  closer  to  it,  but  the  man  apparently  had  not  a  nerve 
and  remained  unconscious,  allowing  it  almost  to  enter  his 
eye.  At  length  she  offered  him  a  sum  in  excess  of  what 
he  would  make  were  the  diligence  full  and  he  consented  to 
harness  his  mules  at  once. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  the  diligence  drew  up  at  the 
entrance  of  the  town.  Any  uneasiness  which  she  had  ex- 
perienced on  the  initial  trip  was  now  forgotten  in  stronger 
anxieties  which  were  all  for  Helena.  The  rocking  of  the 
diligence  over  the  rough  road  and  the  velocity  with  which 
the  whipped  mules  descended  the  inclines  eased  the  feeling 
of  greater  desperation  within  her.  At  best  they  were  mov- 
ing, and  she  had  taken  her  first  step  which  was  to  eventuate 
in  her  daughter's  freedom. 

Mrs.  Cass  reached  El  Cerrito  that  evening  at  nightfall. 
The  diligence  was  not  scheduled  to  repeat  the  trip  for  three 
days.  But  she  realised  her  only  hope  lay  in  communicating 
with  Mr.  Tooker  at  once.  Much  as  she  dreaded  leaving 
Helena  alone  in  Fuente  la  Higuera  she  knew  she  could  be 
of  more  service  in  summoning  immediate  assistance.  Alone 
she  was  unable  to  resort  to  any  strategy  which  would  bear 
results,  and  El  Cerrito  was  the  nearest  point  from  which 
she  could  wire  the  American  Consul. 

At  eight  o'clock  they  were  at  El  Cerrito.  She  was  carry- 
ing a  small  handbag  and  her  money  was  sewed  into  her 
bodice  for  greater  precaution.  She  paid  Angel  and  dis- 
missed him  in  front  of  the  hotel  and  then  went  within  and 


124       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

engaged  a  room  for  the  night  without  asking  to  see  it.  She 
inquired  at  the  office  if  there  was  a  telegraph  bureau  near 
at  hand  and  set  out  to  find  it. 

The  entire  drive  from  Fuente  la  Higuera  had  been  spent 
in  the  composition  of  a  telegram  which  would  be  suffi- 
ciently forceful  to  insure  Mr.  Tooker's  immediate  answer 
to  her  summons.  For  each  period  of  renewed  courage  had 
followed  a  recoil  of  terror  in  which  she  realised  her  plight 
if  Mr.  Tooker  was  unable  to  lend  assistance.  She  knew 
how  many  chances  there  were  that  he  had  official  business 
on  hand  which  could  not  be  set  aside.  And  then  he  might  be 
out  of  town,  or  in  ill  health,  or  have  forgotten,  or  merely 
be  bored  by  the  prospect  of  an  hysterical  woman.  After 
all,  no  one  had  less  claim  upon  his  attention  that  had  she. 

Reaching  the  telegraph  bureau  she  removed  a  slip  of 
paper  from  her  bag  on  which  she  had  written  out  her 
message  and  copied  it  on  a  telegraph  form.  She  wrote: 

"Senor  don  Samuel  Tooker,  American  Consulate,  Calle 
de  Serrano,  Madrid.  My  daughter  has  disappeared  from 
Fuente  la  Higuera  and  I  know  has  been  kidnapped.  All 
efforts  to  apprehend  her  have  been  unavailing.  At  the  inn 
they  even  claim  that  I  came  alone  and  have  no  daughter. 
I  am  desperate  with  anxiety  and  helpless  as  I  cannot  make 
myself  understood.  Please  come  to  me  at  once.  Every 
hour  increases  her  danger,  as  of  course  she  is  imprisoned. 
Wire  immediately  what  you  are  willing  to  do.  In  desperate 
need.  Fredericka  Cass." 

She  read  the  wire  over  several  times  before  committing 
it  to  the  operator.  Had  she  made  her  case  strong  enough? 
Could  any  words  exemplify  her  straits  with  greater  clear- 
ness? She  wondered.  She  consulted  the  exposed  dial  of 
the  clock  across  the  plaza.  It  was  now  nearly  two  o'clock. 

She  rose,  handed  the  strip  of  paper  to  the  operator,  paid 
for  it,  then  returned  to  the  hotel  and  partook  of  dinner. 
Food  caused  her  distress,  but  she  forced  herself  to  eat, 
knowing  she  would  have  need  of  all  her  strength  on  the 
morrow.  Dinner  despatched,  she  quitted  the  hotel  for  a 
stroll,  realising  that  sleep  was  impossible  and  she  could  not 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        125 

discipline  herself  to  an  evening  alone  in  her  room  waiting 
for  time  to  pass. 

She  walked  to  the  extremity  of  the  town  through  narrow 
streets  without  pavements,  people  pouring  out  of  every 
darkened  doorway  to  greet  the  cooler  air  after  the  heat  of 
a  long  day  under  a  sky  of  brass.  A  herd  of  goats  were 
driven  from  door  to  door,  stopping  patiently  to  be  milked 
in  order  to  provide  each  baby  with  its  daily  apportionment. 
The  goats  obeyed  the  reed-whistle  of  the  herdsman,  halting 
always  where  a  woman  was  waiting  with  an  empty  cup.  As 
the  odors  of  the  streets  became  less  pleasant  and  Mrs.  Cass 
collided  with  ruffianly-looking  people  without  occasion  she 
realised  she  was  in  the  poorer  part  of  the  town  and  re- 
turned to  her  hotel,  ordered  coffee  sent  to  her  room  and 
mounted  the  stairs. 

She  removed  her  hat  and  seated  herself  by  the  window. 
When  the  coffee  arrived  she  aroused  herself  to  lighting  a 
lamp,  and  with  the  tray  before  her  poured  out  a  cup  of 
black  fluid.  Her  nerves  had  deserted  her  utterly.  There 
was  no  drug  strong  enough  to  induce  sleep  that  night  and 
each  nerve  cried  out  for  the  stimulant  of  coffee.  They 
were  like  living  creatures  in  torture,  begging  for  a  caress- 
ing hand  to  soothe  them  into  quiescence.  She  rose  and 
threw  herself  dressed  upon  the  bed  and  lay  there  looking 
at  the  ceiling.  The  ceiling  seemed  grey  except  for  a  waver- 
ing circle  of  light  made  by  the  lamp. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  she  went  below-stairs  but 
no  wire  had  arrived  for  her  from  Madrid.  From  then  on 
she  dreaded  the  passage  of  every  quarter  of  an  hour.  She 
was  afraid  to  leave  the  hotel  for  fear  that  the  wire  might 
come  during  her  absence  and  there  be  some  technicality 
whereby  it  could  not  be  signed  for  by  another.  At  ten 
o'clock  she  went  to  the  bureau  but  no  message  had  yet  come 
over  the  wire  for  her.  She  returned  to  the  hotel  and  paced 
her  room,  since  she  could  not  remain  downstairs  where  her 
anxiety  would  be  under  observation,  it  being  one  of  the  exac- 
tions of  the  Anglo-Saxon  mind  that  it  be  allowed  to  suffer 
alone. 


126       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

At  midday  there  came  a  tap  on  her  door.  She  had  so 
many  times  fancied  she  heard  someone  climbing  the  stairs 
to  her  room  and  been  mistaken,  that  she  did  not  answer 
it  at  once.  The  tapping  was  repeated  before  she  opened  the 
door.  An  old  man  stood  in  the  passage  and  extended  an 
envelope  toward  her.  As  she  saw  that  it  was  a  telegram 
she  was  seized  by  uncontrollable  trembling.  She  grasped  it 
and  sat  down  on  the  side  of  her  bed,  as  her  limbs  no  longer 
had  the  strength  to  uphold  her. 

"Am  leaving  Madrid  first  train.  Due  at  El  Cerrito  at 
3  P.M." 

For  a  moment  she  felt  she  had  not  read  the  telegram 
correctly.  Then  as  she  realised  he  was  really  coming  her 
devitalised  constitution  seemed  to  re-absorb  strength  from 
the  bit  of  blue  paper  in  her  hands.  She  saw,  all  at  once, 
that  the  old  man  had  not  gone  but  was  still  in  the  passage. 
She  fumbled  in  her  bag,  found  five  pesetas  and  handed 
them  to  him.  The  man  looked  at  her  as  though  he  thought 
she  had  taken  leave  of  her  senses. 

"Ave  Maria!"  he  cried,  on  noticing  the  amount.  Then 
afraid  she  made  a  mistake  and  would  correct  it,  he  mut- 
tered hastily: 

"Vaya  tisted  con  Dios,"  and  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Cass  uncrumpled  the  telegram  and  read  it  for  a 
fourth  time. 


BOOK  III 


XIII 

THE  performance  seemed  interminable  to  Jay  Sefton. 
Now  that  the  golden  curtains  came  together  after  the  last 
recall  of  the  second  act  of  "Manon"  he  asked  Mrs.  Slater- 
lee's  indulgence  and  went  without  to  smoke  a  cigarette.  In 
the  foyer  he  was  met  by  persistent  friends  who  urged  his 
accompanying  them  to  the  club  rooms  of  the  Metropolitan 
organisation  but  he  resisted.  It  meant  seeing  more  ac- 
quaintances and  listening  to  more  banalities  and  he  wished 
to  be  alone. 

Mr.  Sefton  went  into  the  outer  lobby  and  strode  up  and 
down  in  the  cold,  smoking.  It  was  an  evening  in  late 
November,  the  second  week  of  the  present  opera  season. 
The  opening  performances  had  crowded  the  house  with  the 
fashion  of  New  York,  the  musical  habitues  and  the 
hordes  who  wished  to  be  thought  fashionable  or  musical  or 
both.  It  was  one  of  those  average  audiences,  Mr.  Sefton 
mused,  whose  ebullition  always  overflowed  in  kindly  appre- 
ciation while  the  artists  were  singing ;  that  snuffed  out  every 
high  note  with  ill-timed  applause,  and  this  evening  de- 
manded repeated  recalls  from  the  prima  donna,  presumably 
because  she  was  singing  slightly  off  pitch. 

He  smiled  in  a  cynical  mood,  recalling  a  more  tasteful 
performance  of  "Manon"  heard  at  the  Comique.  Des 
Grieux  in  the  smaller  house,  had  been  perfectly  embodied 
by  Clement,  and  the  French  spirit  had  been  retained  by  not 
having  the  roles  sung  by  Italians.  His  criticism  of  the 
occasion  was  all  of  a  piece,  the  result  of  a  captious  humour. 
Each  day  was  resolving  itself  into  a  rapid  routine  which  he 
seemed  to  lack  strength  to  lighten. 

127 


Sef ton's  change  of  quarters  still  remained  unproductive. 
In  the  two  months  since  he  had  removed  to  East  Both  Street 
he  had  seen  Mr.  Cass  several  times  from  his  study  win- 
dows, Mrs.  Cass  occasionally,  and  Roscoe  and  Annis  almost 
daily,  yet  they  had  not  perceptibly  increased  his  store  of 
impressions.  With  Mrs.  Slaterlee's  information  he  had 
been  able  to  proceed  further  than  most  in  the  work  of  hypo- 
thesis, but  he  did  not  doubt  that  the  detectives  had  out- 
stripped him.  Was  this  after  all  to  be  the  end  of  his  quest, 
he  asked  himself  irritably. 

He  had  waited  for  the  first  night  of  French  opera  with 
anticipation,  remembering  Mrs.  Slaterlee's  expressed  pref- 
erence, and  had  written  asking  her  to  accompany  him. 
Their  conversation  had  remained  quasi-musical  and  literary 
all  evening  and  he  had  expressed  himself  without  knowing 
precisely  what  he  had  said,  hoping  in  each  phrase  to  men- 
tion Miss  Cass  incidentally.  Mrs.  Slaterlee  as  a  woman  of 
literary  tastes  had  responded  to  his  attentions  through  a 
regard  for  "Unexposed."  So  if  he  were  to  shift  the  basis 
of  his  civility  to  a  means  of  learning  more  of  Helena  Cass 
it  might  result  in  her  displeasure.  It  was  fear  of  this 
which  kept  him  from  mentioning  her  name. 

Realising  that  the  evening  was  not  likely  to  be  fruitful 
he  threw  down  the  end  of  his  cigarette  in  a  receptacle  and 
made  his  way  back  into  the  heated  auditorium  while  a  red 
light  glowed  in  the  foyer  as  warning  of  the  next  act.  It 
was  characteristic,  he  thought,  as  he  walked  down  the  aisle 
to  his  stall  in  the  darkened  house,  that  all  men  should  be 
a  little  late  to  their  seats  so  that  their  neighbours  might  share 
a  maximum  of  discomfort. 

It  was  after  eleven  when,  the  opera  over,  he  guided  Mrs. 
Slaterlee  toward  the  39th  Street  entrance,  where  a  motor- 
cab  was  expected  to  wait  for  them.  As  they  approached 
the  entrance  he  saw  two  people  before  him  who  suddenly 
galvanised  his  waning  spirits  into  life.  They  were  too  close 
to  call  Mrs.  Slaterlee's  attention  to  them  except  by  touching 
her  arm.  She  looked  for  a  moment  to  make  positive  their 
identity  before  she  exclaimed: 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       129 

"Mrs.  Cass,  I  don't  know  if  you  remember  me." 

The  woman  addressed  focused  her  eyes  upon  the  speaker 
meditatively  and  then  said  without  surprise  or  emphasis: 

"You  are  Mrs.  Slaterlee." 

"How  kind  of  you  to  remember.  I  have  wanted  to  come 
and  see  you  while  in  town." 

Sefton  looked  from  Mrs.  Cass  in  a  black  evening  dress 
and  furs  to  her  husband,  who  still  wore  a  mourning  band 
encircling  the  sleeve  of  his  Newmarket  coat.  To  be  sure 
it  seemed  more  an  object  of  decoration  than  a  symbol  of 
grief.  But  Mrs.  Cass's  face  was  drawn ;  this  was  no  doubt 
that  the  lines  were  the  result  of  worry  and  disappointment, 
and  after  three  years  they  were  still  in  mourning,  so  why 
should  he  suppose  there  was  any  use  of  continuing  this 
search  ? 

Once  he  was  seated  beside  Mrs.  Slaterlee  in  the  cab,  and 
they  were  being  driven  through  a  thin  veil  of  rain,  he  asked 
when  she  intended  to  put  her  projected  visit  into  effect. 
And  as  she  remained  indefinite  he  urged  the  following  day. 
Couldn't  she  stretch  a  point  and  make  it  to-morrow  and 
couldn't  he  accompany  her?  .  .  . 

Something  in  his  manner  told  Mrs.  Slaterlee  this  extraor- 
dinary request  came  from  the  heart.  With  a  partial  under- 
standing of  the  obsession  by  which  he  was  ridden  she 
agreed.  When  he  bade  her  good  night  at  her  door  it  was 
understood  he  was  to  call  for  her  at  four  next  day. 

Accordingly,  prompt  to  the  minute  he  presented  himself, 
and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  drew  up  in  8oth  Street 
and  he  rang  the  bell.  He  could  not  deny  the  existence  of 
an  all  embracing  perturbation.  He  felt  very  youthful  in 
this  excitement.  A  parlour-maid  opened  the  door  and  Mrs. 
Slaterlee  inquired  if  she  might  see  Mrs.  Cass.  The  maid 
for  a  moment  seemed  in  doubt  how  to  answer.  He  sus- 
pected that  visitors  were  unusual.  But  since  she  was  ob- 
viously not  a  beggar  nor  was  he  an  insurance  clerk  and 
they  were  calling  at  an  orthodox  hour,  she  led  them  across 
the  wide  hall  and  they  mounted  shallow  stairs  in  her  wake 
to  the  drawing-room  floor.  She  opened  long  glass  doors 


i3o       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

and  bade  them  enter  while  she  disappeared  with  Mrs. 
Slaterlee's  card. 

At  first  they  conversed  in  low  tones  with  the  audible 
suppression  of  persons  who  have  arrived  too  early  at  a 
funeral.  But  after  a  moment  realising  that  Mr.  Sefton's 
mind  was  elsewhere  she  ceased  to  talk  at  all,  allowing  him 
time  to  absorb  the  surroundings  in  which  Miss  Cass  had  so 
often  sat. 

The  drawing-room  of  No.  33  was  not  unlike  what  his 
fancy  had  pictured.  It  was  expensive,  smug,  uninteresting. 
He  seated  himself  on  a  saddlebag-chair  before  a  wood-fire 
that  remained  perpetually  unlighted.  The  room  was  well 
illuminated,  inconspicuous  in  decoration  with  Georgian 
furniture,  preserved  with  slight  inaccuracies.  Consol  and 
occasional  tables  upheld  empty  vases  amid  a  litter  of  silver 
and  enamel  trifles.  The  house  had  been  furnished  once 
and  for  all  time,  durably,  inexorably  and  unimaginatively. 
The  green  bronze  of  Canova's  Venus  de  Medici  had  been 
permitted  to  block  the  view  from  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows for  twenty  years. 

Presently  Mrs.  Cass  entered.  She  was  dressed  in  black, 
which  seemed  to  have  eased  itself  from  prohibitory  mourn- 
ing to  something  which  might  or  might  not  be  significant. 
Its  severity  had  not  sought  relief  in  jewels.  There  was  a 
uniformity  in  her  manner  of  courteous  reserve  as  she 
greeted  Mrs.  Slaterlee  and  suffered  Mr.  Sefton  to  be  pre- 
sented to  her.  He  knew  in  that  moment  there  would  be  no 
opportunity  to  mention  her  daughter. 

Their  chatting,  labouriously  manufactured  at  first,  be- 
came later  more  spontaneous.  There  was  no  doubting  the 
ladies'  aplomb,  but  Sefton  after  a  few  comments  experi- 
enced a  feeling  of  dealing  with  shadows.  Mrs.  Cass  her- 
self seemed  unsubstantial,  a  reflection  in  a  glass — some- 
thing one  could  not  touch  without  shattering.  Her  expres- 
sion became  fixed. 

She  thanked  Mrs.  Slaterlee  for  her  kindliness  in  calling. 
That  lady  apologised  for  not  coming  before,  and  as  though 
that  remark  sounded  a  warning  note,  Mrs.  Cass  agreed  she 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       131 

must  be  kept  very  busy  at  Vassar.  Here  there  was  a  pause 
which  she  filled  by  observing  that  since  her  visitor  was  a 
critic  of  literature  and  her  friend  a  novelist  they  must  have 
much  in  common.  From  literature  to  opera  was  an  easy 
step  and  then  began  a  mild  discussion  of  the  performance 
of  the  night  before.  She  questioned  if  the  Metropolitan's 
well-known  aversion  to  French  opera  was  their  chief  rea- 
son for  producing  it  negligibly.  Did  they  think  to  kill  the 
enthusiasm  of  its  followers  by  half-hearted  performances? 
While  this  point  was  debated  tea  appeared. 

Later  hearing  someone  ascending  the  stairs  Mrs.  Cass 
listened  to  a  familiar  step,  then  called: 

"Annis  dear?" 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"Come  in,  please,  a  moment." 

Miss  Annis  Cass  came  between  the  open  doors,  leaning 
against  the  lintel.  Her  unlikeness  to  her  sister  seemed  her 
nearest  approach  to  a  personality  of  her  own.  As  she 
stood  before  him  Jay  Sefton  recognised  the  colourlessness 
about  her  with  which  nature  sometimes  shields  a  shy  per- 
son, whereby  one  remains  equally  unconscious  of  their 
presence  or  absence  from  a  room.  She  accepted  a  chair 
beside  the  tea-table,  filling  in  the  interstices  between  their 
observations  with  an  unvarying  smile. 

Sefton's  attention  returned  to  Mrs.  Cass,  to  her  firm  lips 
and  keen  eyes  and  hands  that  spoke  mutely  of  strength  and 
aptitude.  He  had  been  conscious  ever  since  she  entered 
the  room  that  her  indomitable  eyes  held  a  secret.  It  seemed 
apparent,  too,  in  the  determined  carriage  of  her  shoulders, 
the  right  held  unconsciously  a  little  higher  than  the  left. 
He  felt  assured  that  although  Mr.  Cass  might  be  master  of 
everything  that  was  inconsequent,  Mrs.  Cass  triumphed 
without  his  knowledge  in  all  the  essentials.  From  her  was 
to  be  found  the  answer  to  the  riddle.  Behind  her  dry  calm 
manner  was  the  certainty  whether  Helena  Cass  was  alive 
or  dead.  In  fact  so  strong  was  this  conviction  that  upon  it 
alone,  without  other  evidence,  he  planned  his  next  step. 
Later  when  leaving  the  house  he  had  decided  to  book 
passage  to  sail  the  following  week. 


XIV 

A  HEAVY  December  sky,  grey,  forbidding,  stretched  taut 
to  the  horizon.  It  was  now  noon,  two  hours  before  the 
Sud  Express  was  due  in  Madrid.  Sefton,  who  was  mak- 
ing the  trip  for  the  first  time,  had  remained  by  the  window 
of  his  luxo  not  a  little  dismayed  to  find  since  changing 
trains  at  Irun,  on  crossing  the  frontier,  that  Spain  had  a 
bleaker  and  less  inviting  aspect  in  winter  than  he  had  sup- 
posed. His  knowledge  of  its  topography  was  for  the  most 
part  limited  to  the  impressions  of  Gautier,  de  Musset  and 
Louys. 

Without  they  proceeded  across  sterile  land,  wrinkled, 
that  looked  like  the  skin  of  some  mammoth  creature, 
scared,  stillborn,  centuries  old.  Nowhere  was  there  any 
sign  of  vegetation  or  cattle,  nothing  to  arrest  the  eye  or 
break  the  distance.  Wagon  ruts  ran  by  the  side  of  the 
tracks  and  then  disappeared,  seemingly  without  destination, 
the  ground  frozen,  hollows  holding  crusts  of  snow.  Once 
or  twice  they  proceeded  by  low  mud-coloured  hamlets  that 
seemed  so  much  a  part  of  the  plain  that  except  for  an  occa- 
sional wreath  of  smoke  unmoved  by  the  cold  air  they  might 
have  passed  unnoticed. 

The  train  continued  over  the  desolation  of  the  sand- 
swept  cwn-pana,  like  the  entrails  of  some  intense  volcanic 
commotion.  Here  the  earth  had  cracked  and  broken  apart 
in  fissures  resembling  the  haggard  features  of  a  corpse 
recently  exhumed  to  the  outer  air.  Depressions  filled  with 
rain-water  were  covered  by  a  thin  layer  of  ice  that  looked 
as  though  a  film  had  formed  over  dead  eyes. 

This  immensity  of  devastation  was  girt  by  the  snow-clad 
Sierra  Guadarama  which  bound  them  in  and  chilled  the  air. 
At  length  he  saw  Madrid  lying  in  the  centre  of  the  plateau 
like  a  toy  city  that  seemed  gradually  to  be  drawn  toward 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        133 

them  as  though  attached  to  a  string,  whilst  the  painted 
panorama  beyond  remained  motionless.  A  few  minutes 
later  they  had  reached  the  platform  of  the  North  Station 
and  he  made  his  way  through  the  vivacious  throng  to  the 
street.  He  sprang  into  a  cab  and  was  driven  past  the  Royal 
Palace  by  the  Calle  del  Arenal,  the  Puerta  del  Sol  and  the 
Calle  de  San  Jeronimo  to  the  Ritz.  Here  he  registered  and 
was  shown  to  a  room  overlooking  the  Prado  and  the  foun- 
tain of  Neptune.  The  water  was  now  inactive  and  the  sea 
horses  were  adorned  with  jewels  of  ice. 

Without  waiting  to  remove  his  overcoat  he  telephoned 
directly  to  American  Consul  Samuel  Tooker.  During  the 
interminable  delay  his  heart  beat  in  his  throat  and  a  half 
dozen  likely  excuses  claimed  his  ear.  The  consul  was  dead ; 
or  had  retired  from  Consular  service ;  or  was  so  ill  he  could 
not  be  disturbed  by  a  stranger;  or  again  unwilling  to  give 
information  to  a  person  neither  detective  nor  relative  of 
Miss  Cass  and  so  without  claim  to  the  facts.  This  latter 
thought  seemed  the  more  likely  to  checkmate  and  he  was 
wondering  how  he  could  refute  any  such  argument  when  a 
soft  Spanish  voice  asked  wTio  wished  to  speak  to  His  Ex- 
cellency. 

"An  American  who  has  just  arrived  and  is  in  need  of 
advice,"  he  replied. 

A  moment  later  there  came  a  series  of  vocatives  ad- 
dressed in  English  that  sounded  like  a  pin  drawn  across  a 
mirror.  There  was  no  doubting  the  national  timbre  of  this 
voice  with  the  flatted  a's  and  accentuated  r's  suggesting  a 
youth  passed  in  Pennsylvania  which  twenty  years'  residence 
in  Spain  had  been  powerless  to  correct. 

Sefton  explained  as  concisely  as  possible  his  mission.  He 
had  come  to  Madrid  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  replies 
to  certain  questions  which  were  of  the  utmost  importance 
and  inquired  the  earliest  hour  that  he  could  see  the  Consul. 
After  a  pause,  Mr.  Tooker  named  that  evening  at  ten. 

It  was  now  a  few  minutes  before  three.  He  had  seven 
hours  to  be  got  through  with  somehow.  He  had  no  inter- 
est to  see  the  sights  of  Madrid,  but  to  remain  in  his  room 


i34       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

was  manifestly  impossible.  Grabbing  up  his  hat  he  rang 
for  the  lift,  and  disregarding  any  such  effeminacy  as  an 
umbrella,  he  turned  up  his  collar  and  made  his  way  to  the 
Prado,  where  a  cold  dismal  rain  was  falling. 

He  allowed  himself  to  be  carried  along  by  the  tfirong, 
until  some  time  later,  finding  himself  in  the  Calle  de  Seville 
passing  the  Gran  Cafe  Ingles,  he  retraced  his  steps  and 
entered.  Most  of  the  tables  were  occupied  by  enthusiasts 
of  the  corrida.  The  last  one,  it  appeared,  was  a  poor 
affair,  since  Sefton  learned  that  no  bull  fight  of  any  cir- 
cumstance is  scheduled  in  Madrid  during  the  winter 
months.  A  waiter  recognising  a  foreigner  discovered  a 
place  for  him  next  to  a  table  where  two  well-known. 
matadors  were  seated.  He  ordered  black  coffee  and  per- 
mitted his  attention  to  settle  upon  his  neighbours.  Clear- 
eyed,  olive  skinned,  their  thick  black  hair  shone  smooth  as 
satin  above  low  brows.  Both  were  wearing  the  coleta 
which  he  had  never  seen  before.  Diamonds  flashed  from 
their  muscular  hands ;  every  line  of  their  upright  bodies 
denoted  strength  and  agility.  What  a  strange  craft  which 
took  hold  of  the  imagination  even  of  the  disbelievers.  He 
found  his  interest  kindled  by  the  admiration  surrounding 
them.  An  attentive  waiter  whispered  their  names  with 
pride;  both  great  men  from  Andaluz.  His  nearer  neigh- 
bour abstemiously  declined  wine  to  sip  a  glass  of  aqua  y 
azucarsillo.  The  heat  of  the  vast  sola  was  intense  and  the 
interest  of  the  vociferous  crowd  culminative. 

Later  he  yielded  his  place  to  another  and  once  more 
rejoined  the  drifting  concourse.  There  seemed  something 
unstable  and  purposeless  in  this  press  of  umbrellas.  He 
felt  that  the  passersby  were  not  really  bent  upon  business 
but  intent,  gesticulating,  they  were  moving  nowhere,  much 
like  the  throng  of  a  cinema,  who,  vanishing  off  the  edge 
of  a  screen,  turn  about  only  to  repass  once  more.  These 
people  were  a  part  of  the  general  mise-en-scene  of  some 
vast  adroitly-managed  stage.  They  were  now  giving  a 
daily  evidence  of  vitality  to  streets  and  squares  which  were 
only  adeptly  painted  perspectives  of  canvas  and  scaffold 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        135 

which  could  be  rolled  up  and  trundled  away  in  half  an 
hour. 

At  six-thirty  he  returned  to  his  hotel,  tubbed,  changed 
and  dined  quite  alone  in  the  empty  restaurant.  He  dis- 
covered that  no  one  dined  in  Madrid  before  nine,  which 
doubtless  accounted  for  Mr.  Tooker's  naming  a  later  hour 
for  their  convocation.  Dinner  despatched,  he  bought  a 
four-page  Spanish  paper  and,  returning  to  his  room,  threw 
himself  upon  a  sofa  and  lay  reading  the  local  news. 

At  nine-thirty  he  started  upon  his  errand,  reaching  the 
Calle  de  Serrano  a  few  minutes  before  the  time  set.  He 
was  admitted  by  a  man-servant,  who  led  him  to  the  Con- 
sul's study.  Sefton  introduced  himself  to  a  grey-haired 
man,  who  looked  curiously  foreign,  and  was  waived  to  a 
chair.  He  realised  his  name  was  unsuggestive  to  Mr. 
Tooker,  who  apologised  for  not  keeping  abreast  of  Ameri- 
can literature. 

He  offered  his  visitor  cigarettes  with  execrations  at  the 
quality  of  Spanish  tobacco,  and  then  withdrawing  them 
rang  and  instructed  the  servant  to  pass  the  gentleman  the 
Havana  cigars.  Mr.  Sefton  was  surprised  to  hear  his  host 
had  not  learnt  to  speak  harmoniously  the  language  of  the 
people  against  whom  his  anathemas  were  directed.  Consul 
Tooker  after  years  in  Spain  still  retained  the  belief  that  if 
one  had  anything  of  consequence  to  be  said  it  was  best 
spoken  in  English. 

The  next  moment  was  given  over  to  an  exchange  of 
lights,  following  which  Sefton  said  abruptly : 

"I  have  come  to  see  you  in  regard  to  Helena  Cass." 

"Oh,  Lord." 

Mr.  Tooker's  ejaculation  gave  curt  expression  to  his 
point  of  view.  Had  his  visitor  come  looking  for  buried 
treasure  he  could  have  been  no  more  indisposed  to  believe 
in  the  outcome. 

"I  thought  that  question  ended  long  ago." 

"Ended? — in  what  way?  It  will  never  be  ended  to  me 
until  I  find  her." 


i36       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

As  Mr.  Tooker's  play  of  feature  became  more  perplexed 
Sefton  at  length  amended : 

"Or  at  least  have  positive  proof  she  is  dead.  Mr.  Tooker, 
what  do  you  think  happened  to  her?" 

The  Consul  raised  his  shoulders  in  the  significant  Con- 
tinental gesture. 

"Quien  saber 

"But  of  course  you  must  have  some  idea.  What  was 
your  own  explanation?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  had  one — that  is,  a  satisfactory 
one." 

After  they  had  both  been  refreshed  with  chocolate  and 
churros  Sefton  was  able  to  urge  him  to  begin  his  story. 
He  spoke  with  the  deliberation  of  one  to  whom  thinking 
was  an  ordeal  infrequently  indulged  in.  Sunk  in  a  back- 
water of  petty  consular  duties  he  had  gradually  surrendered 
ambition,  imagination  and  enterprise  in  a  routine  without 
scope,  acquiring  most  of  the  frailties  of  the  native  Madri- 
leno.  Withal  he  was  a  pleasant  companion,  kindly,  hos- 
pitable and  intent  to  be  of  any  assistance  that  he  could. 

In  the  study,  ornamented  with  shabby  Moorish  decora- 
tions and  worn  red  damask,  the  two  men  remained  seated 
over  the  fire  in  the  chimney.  Twice  the  clock  chimed  the 
hour,  but  neither  noticed  it.  The  coals  in  the  grate  glowed, 
turned  grey,  shifted  and  fell  through  the  grill  in  a  silence 
tense,  electric,  while  Sefton  waited  for  the  next  word. 


XV 

THE  arrival  and  departure  of  the  train  were  two  of  the 
events  of  the  day  at  El  Cerrito  and  greetings  were  ex- 
changed between  trainmen,  guards  and  the  inhabitants. 
Mrs.  Cass  was  on  the  platform  before  the  train  was  due 
and  waited  in  the  blistering  heat  until  its  dust-choked  ar- 
rival at  five  o'clock.  She  experienced  a  moment's  doubt  if 
she  would  recognise  Mr.  Tooker  at  once,  as  she  had  seen 
him  only  in  the  one  instance  when  she  had  inquired  on  the 
safety  of  travelling  in  the  Sierra  Morena.  But  her  mis- 
givings were  instantly  routed.  She  stood  facing  the  first- 
class  carriages  and  he  was  the  first  person  whom  she  saw 
alight. 

He  came  forward,  lifted  his  hat  and  clasped  her  hand  in 
a  manner  of  sympathy  as  at  some  bereavement.  Seeing 
him  bear  his  head  as  one  bestowing  condolence  tugged  at 
her  self-control.  In  the  first  moment  of  greeting  she  did 
not  know  what  he  said  or  her  replies.  They  decided  to 
repair  to  the  hotel  for  tea  and  then  return  by  diligence  to 
Fuente  la  Higuera. 

Once  at  the  hotel,  tea  was  served  them  upon  an  iron 
table  on  a  diminutive  balcony  under  an  awning.  The  sun 
dropping  behind  the  mountains  had  burnished  the  roofs  of 
the  neighbouring  houses  with  orange  and  brilliant  pink, 
the  windows  themselves  glowing  like  copper.  Below,  in  the 
street,  was  a  blind  guitar  player,  led  by  a  chico,  and  several 
gleeful  children,  unconscious  of  audience,  had  begun  sol- 
emnly to  dance  the  jota  with  no  little  suppleness  and  skill. 

Mr.  Tooker  turned  his  back  to  the  animated  scene  and 
asked  Mrs.  Cass  to  tell  him  just  what  had  happened  from 
the  moment  of  her  arrival  in  Fuente  la  Higuera  until  the 
disappearance  of  her  daughter.  Realising  the  importance 
that  she  tell  an  impartial  story,  unaffected  by  her  own 


i38        SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

surmisings,  she  recounted  what  had  happened  with  as  little 
embellishment  as  possible.  "\Yhen  she  reached  the  point  in 
her  narrative  when  she  explained  that  in  examining  room 
"number  five"  she  saw  it  was  not  that  occupied  by  her 
daughter,  Mr.  Tooker's  eyes  seemed  to  renew  their  hold 
upon  her. 

"What  room  did  your  daughter  occupy  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  never  able  to  find  it." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Precisely  what  I've  said." 

"Surely  you  did  not  leave  Fuente  la  Higuera  without 
giving  the  posada  a  thorough  investigation?" 

"No." 

"And  even  so  you  could  not  find  the  room  which  you 
described  ?" 

Mrs.  Cass  shook  her  head.  She  had  allowed  her  tea  to 
grow  cold  before  her. 

"No.  I  saw  every  room.  They  opened  every  door  for 
me,  but  Helena's  room  is  not  there.  I  know  it  sounds  un- 
believable, but  it's  the  truth." 

"How  do  you  account  for  it?  Your  host  isn't  a  magi- 
cian." 

"I  don't  account  for  it.  Please  don't  look  so  incredulous. 
I  am  speaking  the  truth.  I  know  it  cannot  be  explained 
through  supernatural  agencies.  Don  Pedro  is  a  dangerous 
and  unscrupulous  man  and  I  believe  is  capable  of  anything. 
He  is  shrewder  and  better  educated  than  the  average 
villager.  It  is  no  ignorant  person  that  we  have  to  deal 
with." 

"Evidently  not.  I  know  these  things  are  so  because  you 
tell  me,  but " 

"There  isn't  any  'but' — they  are  so." 

"Very  well.  I  believe  you.  The  explanation  will  prob- 
ably prove  a  very  simple  one  when  we  get  hold  of  it." 

"I  hope  so." 

"You  think  Don  Pedro  kidnapped  your  daughter  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  know  of  a  motive?" 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        139 

"No.  I  thought  at  first  that  he  might  have  been  at- 
tracted to  her.  I  am  told  the  dark  Spaniard  admires  the 
fair  type  of  foreign  women.  Helena  isn't  fair,  but  she 
has  the  light  skin  that  one  sees  rarely  here,  but  it  seems  the 
man  is  married,  so  that  may  not  be  his  reason.  I  thought 
too  it  might  be  robbery,  but  in  that  case  he  would  have  done 
so  much  better  to  come  to  me.  I  was  carrying  the  money, 
and  I  drank  enough  of  the  drugged  aguardiente  so  there 
was  no  danger  of  my  waking.  And  the  locks  at  the  fonda 
are  so  insecure  they  could  be  easily  picked." 

"You  are  certain  the  wine  was  drugged?" 

"Positive.  Don't  try  to  minimise  what  I  have  told  you, 
Mr.  Tooker.  I  am  not  naturally  an  excitable  woman,  so 
you  can  accept  my  word  as  no  more  over-coloured  than  a 
man's.  I  feel  that  your  presence  is  going  to  frighten  Don 
Pedro.  It's  one  thing  to  have  a  woman  to  deal  with  and 
quite  another  to  have  a  man.  We  ought  to  arrive  at  facts 
to-night  which  will  show  us  just  where  we  are.  You  won't 
have  any  more  tea  ?" 

"No,  thanks." 

"Then  let  us  go." 

The  sun  had  already  disappeared,  and  a  faint  bloom  which 
would  shortly  produce  a  sinister  darkness  was  enfolding  the 
country  beyond  the  town.  Mr.  Tooker  gave  his  bag  to  a 
boy  to  carry  and,  excusing  himself  for  a  moment  on  reach- 
ing the  diligence,  strode  across  the  plaza  to  the  telegraph 
bureau  where  he  saw  to  sending  a  couple  of  wires  and  then 
returned.  Angel  lashed  his  mules  and  they  were  off. 

It  was  close  to  nine  o'clock  when  they  reached  Fuente  la 
Higuera  and  made  their  way  to  the  fonda.  Don  Pedro  was 
not  at  home  but  Maria  de  la  Concepcione  admitted  them. 
Mrs.  Cass  looked  at  the  woman's  locked  immobile  counte- 
nance. It  neither  expressed  surprise  nor  dismay  at  her 
return,  nor  any  curiosity  in  her  escort's  presence.  She 
realised  that  here  was  a  woman,  hardened  by  long  appren- 
ticeship out  of  doors,  with  a  strength  greater  than  her 
husband's,  a  constitution  that  knew  neither  nerves  nor 
fatigue.  Hers  was  the  hardness  of  bronze  with  a  com- 


i4o       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

plexion  coloured  by  long  exposure  that  had  the  beauty  of  a 
statue  only  partially  animated,  a  beauty  proof  against  scars 
of  burning  sun  or  inroads  of  utter  exhaustion.  She  was 
far  removed  from  women  of  Airs.  Cass's  world  who  had 
"days"  for  looking  well  and  "days"  for  looking  ill. 

Maria  de  la  Concepcione's  stolid  face  betrayed  no  lapses 
into  curiosity  when  Mr.  Tooker  addressed  her  in  her  native 
tongue.  In  her  husband's  absence  she  instructed  him  to 
register  on  a  strip  of  paper  which  she  afterwards  placed  in 
the  book  below  Mrs.  Cass's  name.  Later  she  led  him  up- 
stairs and  opened  the  door  to  "number  four,"  and  after  a 
hasty  glance  within,  he  agreed  to  accept  it.  In  the  mean- 
time Mrs.  Cass  had  unlocked  her  door  and  found  her  room 
undisturbed.  When  she  returned  to  the  office  a  supper 
was  prepared  for  them,  and  Mr.  Tooker  urged  her  to  eat. 

"Your  wine  may  have  been  drugged  before,"  he  agreed, 
"but  you  may  rest  assured  that  they  won't  attempt  anything 
of  the  sort  again." 

Mrs.  Cass  compromised  on  a  frugal  meal,  but  Mr.  Tooker 
ate  heartily.  Later  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  went  in  search 
of  Don  Pedro  at  the  friendly  venta  around  the  corner.  As 
Mr.  Tooker  reached  the  doorway  he  saw  the  room  was 
lighted  by  a  single  petroleum  lamp  hung  from  the  ceiling. 
Beneath  it,  in  the  harsh  light  and  deep  shadows,  were 
seated  half  a  dozen  men  visible  through  clouds  of  cigarette 
smoke  engrossed  in  a  game  of  cards  which  seemed  to  be 
made  up  of  equal  parts  vociferation  and  death-like  silence. 
It  was  during  one  of  the  momentary  pauses  that  Mr. 
Tooker  appeared  before  them. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "is  there  one  among  you  known 
as  Don  Pedro  from  the  fonda?" 

"Si,  senor.  Perfectamente.  I  am  that  gentleman  you 
seek." 

A  man  had  risen,  dark  of  face,  possessing  a  curious, 
passionate  calm  that  seemed  Arabic  in  its  intenseness,  the 
quiet  of  boiling  water  that  has  cooled.  His  manner  was 
free  of  shifting  or  evasion,  and  he  returned  Mr.  Tooker's 
scrutiny  without  surprise  or  annoyance. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"I  am  the  American  Consul  from  Madrid,  Don  Pedro, 
whom  Mrs.  Cass,  the  English  lady  of  your  fonda,  has  asked 
to  speak  to  you  about  her  daughter.  May  I  intrude  upon 
your  time  for  a  few  minutes  ?" 

"Willingly." 

As  he  lay  down  his  cards  Mr.  Tooker  recognised  in  his 
partner  the  evil  face  and  scarred  brow  that  Mrs.  Cass  had 
described  as  the  present  occupant  of  room  number  five. 
He  felt,  instinctively,  in  spite  of  past  doubts  that  she  had 
not  overstated  her  case. 

As  Don  Pedro  stepped  out  into  the  night  air  he  enquired : 

"You  arrived  to-night?" 

"Yes." 

"Pray  consider  the  fonda  your  house  so  long  as  it  pleases 
you  to  remain  in  Fuente  la  Higuera.  It  is  the  daughter  of 
the  English  lady  you  wish  to  speak  of?" 

"Yes." 

"That  pobrecilla!" 

And  he  shook  his  head  in  desperation  as  he  lifted  the 
latch  and  led  his  companion  into  the  office.  He  offered  Mr. 
Tooker  a  pouch  of  tobacco  which  he  declined,  in  order  to 
smoke  one  of  his  own  cigars  while  Don  Pedro  rolled  and 
moistened  a  succession  of  cigarettes,  one  stub  rapidly  sup- 
plementing another  hanging  limply  to  his  under  lip.  Don 
Pedro  did  not  wait  to  be  questioned.  He  already  possessed 
a  story,  apt,  eloquent,  and  a  readiness  of  words  which  as- 
sured the  consul  it  would  be  difficult  to  entrap  the  man. 
He  told  of  Mrs.  Cass's  midnight  arrival,  friendless,  utterly  a 
stranger,  without  comprehension  of  the  language,  her  sup- 
per being  served  her  and  she  accorded  a  room.  Next  morn- 
ing she  insisted  upon  seeing  room  number  five,  occupied  by 
Don  Rodolfo,  which  she  claimed  belonged  to  this  same 
mythical  daughter.  She  described,  he  said,  the  furnishings 
of  a  room  such  as  he  had  never  possessed.  A  bed  with 
a  canopy,  if  you  please.  Not  that  he  would  not  be  proud 
to  own  any  such  luxury,  but  he,  Pedro,  and  his  wife, 
Concha,  were  simple,  unpretentious  people  and  their  beds, 
the  consul  would  be  shown,  were  simply  pallet  beds,  some- 


i42       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

thing  to  provide  a  modest  shakedown  for  the  night,  no 
more.  She  had  spoken  of  walls  covered  with  flowers  and 
birds,  which  he  knew  was  not  irony.  No,  it  could  not  be 
irony.  The  sefiora  was  too  patrician  for  such  expressions. 
He  had  been  unable  to  pay  for  extravagances  and  had  been 
satisfied  to  have  something  more  modest.  But  the  consul 
should  see  for  himself. 

With  a  willingness  intended  to  deceive,  he  led  Mr.  Tooker 
from  room  to  room  until  every  square  foot  of  the  f onda  had 
been  investigated.  Don  Pedro's  words  had  proven  only 
too  true.  The  room  Mrs.  Cass  recalled  did  not  exist.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  not  "number  five."  It  was  equally  certain 
that  it  was  not  any  other  room.  Don  Pedro  did  not  ask  that 
the  American  believe  his  word  but  offered  further  evidence 
of  his  good  faith  by  lighting  a  candle  lantern  and  leading 
him  into  the  patio.  Here,  by  the  well,  he  could  hear  two 
asses  moving  in  their  stalls,  munching  hay,  and  smell  the 
not  unpleasant  odours  of  animals,  grain  and  bleaching 
straw.  Here  Don  Pedro  was  at  pains  to  explain  that  the 
fonda  contained  no  wasted  space,  so  that  it  was  obvious  it 
possessed  no  walled  or  secret  door.  He  convinced  the 
stranger  they  had  explored  every  possible  receptacle  under 
the  roof,  where,  as  he  explained  it,  "that  so-called  daughter" 
could  have  hidden  herself. 

Mr.  Tooker  was  not  unimpressed.  Don  Pedro  was,  it 
seemed  to  him,  undoubtedly,  a  rascal.  But  he  was  also  a 
shrewd  and  convincing  man.  There  was  no  point  of  Mrs. 
Cass's  story  which  he  was  not  able  to  overcome  with  proof 
and  pointed  comment,  all  uttered  with  his  unfailing  unction. 
At  length  Mr.  Tooker's  own  receptivity  reaching  its  limit, 
he  said  good  night  and,  upon  Don  Pedro's  "God  be  with 
you,"  climbed  the  stairs  alone.  His  host,  singing  a  verse 
of  an  old  Spanish  song,  left  the  fonda  in  good  spirits  and 
returned  undaunted  to  his  game. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Tooker  avoided  Mrs.  Cass  and  sought 
the  alcalde.  He  remained  with  him  an  hour  reviewing 
every  incident  of  Miss  Cass's  mysterious  disappearance.  He 
heard  the  native  man's  own  scepticism,  who  believed  the 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       143 

Senora  Cass  had  been  unaccompanied.  Of  the  simple  coun- 
tryman's probity  he  had  no  doubt.  At  all  events,  this  man 
was  no  way  in  league  with  Don  Pedro.  Directed  by  the 
alcalde,  he  later  interrogated  the  cochero. 

Angel  now  having  had  time  to  reconsider  the  events  of 
past  days,  thoroughly  deplored  his  inebriety,  an  excess  less 
venial  in  Spain  than  elsewhere.  Now  completely  chastened, 
he  assured  Mr.  Tooker  that  while  at  times  during  the  drive 
his  mules  had  seemed  double  in  number,  he  was  now  cer- 
tain, that  although  most  objects  had  been  multiplied,  the 
occupant  of  the  diligence  had  consisted  of  only  one  lady. 

Mr.  Tooker  explored  Fuente  la  Higuera  before  returning 
to  the  fonda  and  there  found  Mrs.  Cass  awaiting  his  re- 
turn. She  had  lunched  alone,  distrustful  until  she  saw  him 
again,  for  already  Mr.  Tooker  seemed  a  very  dear  friend. 

"Have  you  been  able  to  trace  any  clue?" 

"No,"  he  said  bluntly. 

And  then  they  avoided  each  other's  eyes  as  he  lowered 
himself  heavily  into  the  chair  beside  her. 

"You've  seen  the  room  I  spoke  of  is  not  here,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes.    I  have  seen  that." 

"Well — you  must  have  some  theory.    Let  me  have  it." 

Mr.  Tooker's  eyes  strayed  to  the  animated  street  which 
they  glimpsed  through  the  open  door,  and  at  length  returned 
to  his  companion.  Mrs.  Cass  felt  he  would  welcome  any 
distraction  which  would  render  speech  impossible. 

"Mrs.  Cass,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  feel  I  am  totally  in- 
capable to  cope  with  this  situation.  The  very  premise  of 
your  case  is  one  that  evades  my  grasp.  There  is  nothing 
I  can  lay  hands  upon.  If  you  had  called  upon  me  to  assist 
you  to  find  a  daughter  who  had  been  stolen  I  think  I  might 
have  been  of  use.  But  this  is  a  very  different  matter  from 
what  I  anticipated.  Mystery  enters  this.  I'm  .  .  .  incredu- 
lous. You  see  I  can't  restore  a  lost  room.  I'm  a  very 
unimaginative  man  and  unable  to  deal  with  anything  but 
concrete  cases.  I  only  believe  in  what  I  see.  I'm  a  mate- 
rialist. I  admit  it.  What  I  don't  see  doesn't  concern  me. 


144       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Highly  strung  people  no  doubt  see  a  great  deal  that  is  in- 
visible to  me.  But  don't  you  realise  already  that  you  have 
sent  for  the  wrong  man?" 

Mrs.  Cass's  face  expressed  terror. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  take  it  this  way.  There  isn't  any 
right  or  wrong  man.  I  sent  for  you  because  I  know  no 
other  American  in  Spain,  and  I  am  helpless  except  for  what 
you  can  do  for  me." 

"If  you  wish  me  to  place  it  in  the  hands  of  detectives  on 
my  return  to  Madrid,  of  course  I  will  do  just  as  I  am  in- 
structed." 

"Don't  leave  me.  Your  judgment  hasn't  been  affected 
by  what  these  Spaniards  have  told  you,  has  it?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"It's  what  you  have  said  yourself." 

"You  think  I'm  mad.  That  I  ought  to  be  put  away  some- 
where. Mr.  Tooker,  can't  you  see  from  my  appearance 
that  I  am  practical,  that  I  am  what  is  usually  called  a  'sen- 
sible' woman?  You  feel  instinctively  that  I  am  not  given 
to  absurd  vagaries  or  extravagant  impressions,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  slowly.  "That's  why  I  cannot  make 
your  appearance  agree  with  your  story." 

"I  am  not  surprised  that  the  alcalde  found  Don  Pedro's 
words  more  convincing  than  mine.  We  could  scarcely  un- 
derstand each  other.  We  had  no  common  language.  More- 
over, I  represented  a  type  unknown  to  his  world.  But  you 
and  I  are  different.  You  know  in  your  heart,  as  unbeliev- 
able as  all  this  sounds,  that  it  is  true." 

She  paused  a  moment,  her  hands  at  her  breast  in  a 
simple  yet  grandiloquent  gesture  of  utter  loss.  So  might 
Niobe  have  remained.  Mr.  Tooker  was  moved  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"I'm  not  a  vain  woman,"  she  went  on,  keeping  her  voice  to 
a  natural  pitch  as  best  she  could,  "but  I  looked  in  my  glass 
when  putting  on  my  hat  to  come  down  to  meet  you,  and 
I  saw  my  reflection  for  the  first  time  to-day.  I  was  shocked. 
I  didn't  recognise  my  own  face.  My  appearance  doesn't 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       145 

matter.  I  only  wish  to  say  no  woman  looks  as  I  do  unless 
she  is  suffering  acutely.  You  know  that." 

He  inclined  his  head. 

"Isn't  it  manifestly  impossible  that  any  woman  should  be 
in  such  torment  over  an  imaginary  matter?  People  don't 
suffer  as  I  do  even  in  madness.  I  suppose  you  think  I  am 
mad." 

"I  didn't  say  that." 

"You  implied  it.  And  your  silence  convicts  you.  Mr. 
Tooker,  no  sane  woman  would  come  here  alone  for  noth- 
ing. Now  I  left  Madrid  with  Helena.  We  arrived  at  El 
Cerrito  together  at  nine  o'clock.  I  can't  prove  to  you  that 
my  daughter  was  with  me  after  that  because  Angel  was 
intoxicated  and  has  forgotten.  Don  Pedro  and  Maria  have 
their  own  reasons  for  lying,  and  he  has  misrepresented 
matters  to  the  alcalde  so  he  naturally  believes  them.  That  is 
the  strength  of  my  opposition.  Don  Pedro's  reason  for 
lying  is  only  too  patent,  but  why  should  you  believe  him. 
You've  seen  Helena.  You  know  she  is  a  beautiful  girl. 
She  is  probably  one  of  the  first  American  girls  that  this 
man  has  ever  seen.  It's  not  so  difficult  to  understand  that 
he  wanted  her  and  has  stolen  her  and  is  keeping  her  cap- 
tive. She  was  wearing,  the  night  we  arrived,  the  same  dress 
as  when  she  went  with  me  to  see  you.  Dark  blue,  with  a 
hat  to  match,  a  veil,  a  string  of  pearls,  but  they  were  under 
her  blouse  and  not  visible.  The  pearls  had  little  value, 
about  five  thousand ;  she  had  had  them  several  ye?.rs,  and 
she  was  wearing  a  valuable  diamond,  but  had  turned  the 
stone  on  the  inside  of  her  hand  so  it  did  not  show.  She  had 
very  little  money  with  her,  not  over  a  hundred  dollars. 
If  it  had  been  theft  and  not  the  girl  he  had  wanted  he 
would  have  stolen  my  pocketbook  instead,  wouldn't  he?" 

Mr.  Tooker  remained  silent. 

"Of  course  I  am  a  mother  and  prejudiced,"  she  went 
on,  "but  didn't  you  think  Helena  was  beautiful?" 

Again  he  was  silent. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?" 

"Because  I've  never  seen  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Cass." 


i46       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"Have  you  forgotten  ...  in  Madrid  ?" 

"No.  I  remember  your  coming  to  the  consulate,  and 
you  spoke  of  Miss  Cass.  You  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about 
her,  but  you  were  unaccompanied." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Quite." 

"I  had  forgotten.  Seems  to  me  she  did  remain  at  the 
hotel  that  afternoon,  now  you  speak  of  it,  but  that  in  no 
way  alters  the  facts,  does  it?  You  know  she  exists,  don't 
you?  You  believe  I  have  a  daughter,  don't  you?  At  least 
you  believe  that?" 

"Mrs.  Cass,  I  am  not  a  Spaniard.  I  can't  say  the  pleas- 
ant, easy  things  they  do.  I'm  an  American  and  am  very 
blunt.  If  you  have  a  daughter  who  is  lost,  I  don't  believe 
she  is  stolen.  Furthermore,  I  don't  believe  Don  Pedro  or 
his  wife  are  in  any  way  concerned  with  her  disappearance." 

"Then  how  could  it  have  happened  ?" 

"In  some  perfectly  simple,  disingenuous  way.  I  think 
you  probably  know  Miss  Cass  very  slightly.  I  don't  doubt 
that  the  girl  has  met  someone,  perhaps  a  Spaniard,  with 
whom  she  was  flirting  without  your  knowing  anything  about 
it.  What  has  worried  you  with  thoughts  of  kidnapping 
and  ransom,  I  believe,  is  merely  an  elopement.  Every 
mother  thinks  she  knows  her  daughter,  but  how  many  do? 
Was  your  daughter  often  out  of  your  sight?" 

"Yes." 

"Isn't  it  possible  she  received  letters  without  your  know- 
ing?" 

"It's  possible  ...  but  I  doubt  it." 

"Did  you  ever  catch  her  surreptitiously  posting  a  letter? 
.  .  .  Think  well.  I  can  see  by  your  face  that  you  have. 
.  .  .  Think  it  over  and  tell  me  if  I  haven't  hit  upon  a  more 
likely  explanation." 


XVI 

MRS.  CASS  would  not  allow  herself  to  answer  his  query 
for  several  seconds.  His  supposition  was  improbable,  but 
she  admitted  it  had  its  points  of  resemblance  with  the  facts. 

At  length  she  said : 

"If  Helena  has  eloped,  as  you  say,  how  do  you  account 
for  Don  Pedro's  lying?  Do  you  think  she  paid  him  to  say 
he  knew  nothing  about  her?" 

"Perhaps." 

"And  this  complete  repudiation  is  simply  the  natural 
excess  of  one  not  versed  in  lying  discreetly?" 

"At  least  it's  worth  thinking  about.  If  Don  Pedro 
had  stolen  your  daughter  as  ruthlessly  and  criminally  as 
you  suppose,  do  you  think  he  could  appear  as  unconcerned 
as  he  seems  to  be?" 

Mrs.  Cass  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  gave 
way,  and  then  abruptly  pulled  herself  up  at  the  consul's 
next  question. 

"Do  you  know  anyone  in  Europe  interested  in  your 
daughter  ?" 

"Helena  considers  herself  secretly  engaged." 

"She  does?" 

"Yes." 

"This  sounds  more  like  it." 

She  told  him  of  Mr.  Jordan  Buel's  infatuation  for  her 
daughter  and  of  her  conversation  with  Helena  in  Paris. 
She  and  Helena  had  come  to  Spain  alone  and,  so  far  as 
she  knew,  the  girl  was  not  in  communication  with  Mr. 
Buel.  Mrs.  Cass  regretted  to  make  the  admission  but  she 
knew  Helena  had  broken  her  word  and  sent  him  a  note  the 
night  before  they  left  Madrid.  Her  daughter  fancied  her- 
self very  much  in  love  with  the  man,  but  she  doubted  the 

i47 


I48       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

attachment  being  serious,  and  disapproved  of  the  match  as 
strongly  as  her  husband. 

"Now  we  have  something  to  work  on,"  he  remarked 
cheerfully  as  Mrs.  Cass  finished.  She  felt  herself  impreg- 
nated with  a  certain  optimism  which  these  disclosures 
seemed  to  have  established  in  his  mind.  She  reassured 
herself  that  Mr.  Tooker  was  a  person  of  greater  experience 
than  she  and  his  substitution  of  motive  for  Helena's  dis- 
appearance was  not  unlikely  a  better  working  basis  than 
hers,  with  which  to  set  out  to  overtake  her. 

"It  now  resolves  itself  into  a  case  of  'find  the  man/  " 
the  American  Consul  continued.  "Wherever  Mr.  Buel  is, 
there  is  your  daughter.  Have  you  his  last  address  ?" 

Mrs.  Cass  admitted  that  she  knew  nothing  of  his  where- 
abouts. She  had  not  seen  or  heard  of  him  since  Helena 
had  left  Brittany.  At  that  time  he  had  been  stopping  at 
St.  Lo,  but  merely  to  be  near  Miss  Cass.  He  had  undoubt- 
edly left  directly  Helena  was  gone  and  was  not  unlikely 
in  Paris,  or  at  St.  Aix. 

Mr.  Tooker's  brow  clouded.  It  was  not  such  a  hopeful 
outlook  as  he  had  expected. 

"Do  you  know  his  banker  in  Paris?" 

"No.     I  haven't  an  idea  what  bank  he  uses." 

"At  what  hotel  does  he  stop?" 

"I  don't  know  that  either." 

"If  it  were  a  matter  of  life  and  death  for  you  to  get  in 
touch  with  him,  how  would  you  go  about  it?" 

She  thought  for  a  moment  and  then  replied : 

"I  would  wire  every  hotel  in  Paris  where  there  was  any 
chance  of  his  being.  And  in  case  he  had  stopped  at  any 
one  of  them  I  would  have  my  wire  forwarded." 

"Then  do  so  now." 

"Now?" 

"Yes.  I  will  get  Angel  to  take  me  in  to  El  Cerrito  this 
afternoon.  I'll  leave  in  an  hour  and  we  ought  to  hear  from 
Buel  inside  a  few  days." 

He  handed  Mrs.  Cass  his  fountain  pen  and  went  off  to 
bribe  the  cochero  to  make  another  trip.  Mr.  Tooker  had 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       149 

a  second  and  even  stronger  reason  for  wishing  to  go,  beside 
the  ostensible  one  which  he  had  given.  He  was  expecting 
a  reply  to  the  wire  which  he  had  sent  on  his  arrival  and 
was  impatient  to  see  it. 

Three  hours  later,  amidst  a  jingle  of  bells,  a  snapping  of 
the  whip  and  muttered  curses,  Angel  drew  his  mules  up 
in  the  plaza  before  the  telegraph  bureau,  and  Mr.  Tooker 
alighted  and  entered.  The  wire  he  was  anticipating  was 
already  there.  After  giving  his  name  the  blue  envelope 
was  handed  him  and  he  tore  it  apart  and  read : 

"Mrs.  J.  de  W.  Cass  and  daughter,  Miss  Helena  Cass  of 
New  York,  were  guests  of  this  hotel  for  eight  days.  They 
left  here  September  7th,  destination  unknown,  no  forward- 
ing address  left.  (Signed,  Management  of  Hotel  de  la 
Paz,  Madrid.)" 

The  consul  felt  curiously  ashamed  at  this  ratification  of 
Mrs.  Cass's  word.  Her  story  had  been  preposterous  but  the 
woman  was  not  deranged  as  she  had  seemed,  but  had  really 
travelled  with  a  daughter.  Helena  Cass  was  a  human  be- 
ing who  had  left  Madrid  writh  her  mother  less  than  a  week 
ago,  "destination  unknown." 

He  read  off  the  telegrams  to  be  sent  to  the  operator,  as 
the  man  understood  no  English.  His  first  thought  after 
sending  them  was  to  remain  in  El  Cerrito  until  replies  came. 
But  he  realised  Mrs.  Cass  needed  his  presence  in  Fuente  la 
Higuera  and  returned  that  night.  But  before  doing  so  he 
had  made  a  bargain  with  Angel  to  bring  the  answers  with 
him  on  his  next  trip. 

When  four  days  later  Angel  returned  from  El  Cerrito 
with  the  laconic  statement  that  there  was  no  wire  for  Mrs. 
Cass  her  desperation  was  now  at  its  most  acute  stage.  Si- 
lence signified  to  her  that  Mr.  Buel  could  not  be  traced  and 
failing  to  ascertain  where  Helena  had  gone  after  leaving 
Brittany  he  had,  perhaps,  returned  to  America.  In  that 
case  Mr.  Buel's  whereabouts  was  in  no  way  correlative 
with  that  of  Helena's.  The  American  Consul's  ability  to 
discover  fresh  fortuity  in  each  misfortune  did  not  tend 
materially  to  ease  her  fears.  Mr.  Tooker  insisted  that  one 


1 50       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

of  the  Paris  wires  must  have  reached  Buel  and  the  fact 
that  he  had  not  seen  fit  to  reply  was  conclusive  proof  that 
Miss  Cass  was  with  him. 

"It  stands  to  reason,"  he  insisted,  "that  if  Buel  does  not 
know  where  your  daughter  is  he  would  be  alarmed  in  re- 
ceiving a  wire  from  you  asking  if  she  is  safe.  On  the  other 
hand  if  they  are  together  he  will  ignore  your  question  so 
as  to  hinder  you  from  rediscovering  them." 

At  length  Mrs.  Cass  allowed  this  theory  to  quiet  her.  On 
the  evening  of  the  seventh  day  since  the  wires  had  been  sent 
Angel  returned  from  El  Cerrito.  This  time  he  fumbled  in 
his  coat  and  removed  an  envelope  addressed  to  Senora  Cass. 

She  read: 

"Know  nothing  about  Helena.  Have  not  seen  her  since 
Brittany.  Am  leaving  first  train.  Will  be  with  you  to- 
morrow. Jordan  Buel." 

It  was  sent  from  Madrid,  where  it  had  been  forwarded 
from  the  Hotel  Edward  VII  in  Paris. 

Mrs.  Cass's  face  turned  slowly  ashen.  Her  eyes  were 
stricken.  She  made  no  remark,  but  continued  to  look  at  Mr. 
Tooker,  her  entire  expression  accusatory. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I've  evidently  been  too  incredulous 
throughout.  The  whole  experience  has  seemed  so  amazing. 
We've  lost  a  week  through  this  and  yet  it  may  be  that  he 
really  knows.  You  saw  her  post  a  letter?  You  admitted 
that.  Then  why  was  he  in  Madrid  unless  they  had  ar- 
ranged to  meet  ?  At  least  we  shall  find  out  to-morrow  when 
he  comes." 

At  nine  o'clock  next  evening  Jordan  Buel  entered  the  of- 
fice of  the  fonda  followed  by  two  men. 


XVII 

"You  don't  know  where  she  is?" 

Mr.  Buel  hurled  the  question  at  Mrs.  Cass  without  a 
word  of  preamble  or  previous  recognition. 

"No.    We  thought  she  was  with  you." 

"Then  you  can't  know  Helena  very  well.  Did  you  think 
she  would  desert  you  in  a  hole  like  this,  at  the  mercy  of 
these  people?  Why  did  you  ever  come  here?" 

"Helena  wanted  to  do  some  sketching." 

"Sketching!"  He  pronounced  the  word  disdainfully. 
"She  was  restless  and  not  herself.  She  didn't  know  what 
she  wanted.  You  should  never  have  allowed  it." 

He  turned  harassed  eyes  which  took  in  the  limitations  of 
the  room,  noticed  its  other  occupant  and  then  returned  to 
Mrs.  Cass. 

"Who  is  this  man  ?"  he  asked.    "Is  he  with  you  ?" 

"He  is  the  American  Consul  from  Madrid,  who  has  tried 
to  help  me." 

"Then  he  knows  all  about  it?" 

"Yes." 

If  Mrs.  Cass  had  encouraged  any  hope  that  Mr.  Buel 
was  aware  of  Helena's  escapade  it  was  dissipated  by  his 
appearance.  The  man  had  evidently  passed  a  sleepless  night 
and  his  face  was  lined  with  anxiety.  She  realised  that  his 
seeming  hostility  was  in  no  way  the  result  of  being  inac- 
ceptable  to  Miss  Cass's  parents  as  a  son-in-law.  For  the 
moment  he  had  risen  to  a  condition  of  unselfishness  which 
she  previously  had  thought  not  possible,  wherein  his  only 
feeling  was  for  Helena's  safety.  He  had  set  aside  all  past 
prejudices  and  his  anger  was  directed  against  the  culpable 
neglect  which  alone  he  felt  was  responsible  for  Helena's 
loss. 

"My  name  is  Buel,"  he  said,  as  he  strode  across  the  room 

151 


I52       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

and  extended  his  hand  to  Mr.  Tooker.  "I  am  engaged  to 
Miss  Cass,  so  this  is  more  vital  to  me  than  to  anyone  else. 
I  want  to  thank  you  for  anything  you've  done.  Just  what 
has  been  done?" 

"I'm  afraid  very  little." 

And  then  as  Mr.  Tooker  hesitated  before  saying  more, 
Mr.  Buel  interrupting  his  uncommunicativeness,  said 
promptly : 

"You  can  speak  before  these  men.  Senor  Lopez  is  the 
best  known  detective  in  Madrid,  so  I  have  been  assured,  and 
Senor  Rivas  is  his  assistant.  They  both  understand  Eng- 
lish. They  will  have  to  know  just  what  has  happened,  and 
they  might  as  well  now  as  later." 

The  two  men  indirectly  introduced  had  disposed  of  their 
luggage  and,  drawing  up  chairs,  seated  themselves  beside 
Mr.  Buel.  Their  faces  kindled  interest,  their  eyes  glowed 
as  though  a  fire  burned  behind  each.  Thus  enjoined  Mrs. 
Cass  repeated  her  story  for  the  most  part  without  interrup- 
tion. It  was  Mr.  Buel  who  spoke  first  as  the  narrative  was 
completed. 

"Had  Helena  seemed  just  as  usual  before  her  disap- 
pearance?" he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  'just  as  usual,' "  Mrs. 
Cass  replied,  with  momentary  testiness.  "She  has  seemed 
a  difficult  girl  ever  since  she  knew  you." 

"I  don't  mean  that.    Was  she  in  good  spirits?" 

"No.     I  haven't  thought  Helena  happy  for  some  time." 

"Why  not  ?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"Because  of  restlessness  and  discontent.  I  know  that  is 
supposed  to  be  more  or  less  a  sign  of  the  times.  But  I 
don't  think  that  altogether  explained  it  in  Helena's  case.  I 
believe  she  had  something  on  her  mind  which  preyed  upon 
her." 

"Did  you  ever  ask  her?" 

"No." 

"Wouldn't  that  have  been  the  simplest  way  of  routing  all 
doubts?" 

"You    don't    understand    the    relationship    which    ex- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       153 

isted  ..."  She  hesitated,  then  corrected  herself,  "which 
exists  between  us." 

They  saw  at  once  that  the  turn  of  phrase  had  been  uncon- 
trolled and  yet  it  expressed  the  thought  in  each  mind.  Was 
Helena  alive  now  ?  Was  it  not  more  reasonable  to  suppose 
the  girl  had  been  killed  and  disposed  of  so  that  the  answer 
to  her  disappearance  would  never  be  known?  Mrs.  Cass 
struggled  for  a  moment  to  regain  her  composure  and  then 
continued : 

"I  never  asked  Helena  questions.  There  was  no  act  of 
self-sacrifice  which  she  would  not  have  willingly  performed 
for  me,  or  her  brother  and  sister.  But  the  smallest  duty, 
if  expected  and  an  effort  was  made  to  coerce  her,  would 
have  galled.  I  held  my  daughter's  confidence  by  never 
asking  for  it.  We  were  very  close  together  while  in  Paris." 

"Did  Helena  ever  speak  of  me?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"Does  that  matter  now?" 

"Yes.  More  than  ever.  Don't  you  suppose  it  occurs  to 
me  that  words  may  be  all  I  shall  ever  have  from  her  again  ? 
That  I  may  have  to  content  myself  with  what  you  tell  me? 
We're  hoping  she's  alive,  but  is  it  likely?" 

"Don't  say  that!" 

"What  did  Helena  say?" 

"She  asked  me  to  overcome  her  father's  bias  against 
you." 

"Well?" 

"Do  you  wish  to  know  my  answer?" 

"Of  course.    You  refused?" 

"I  told  her  I  shared  it  and  that  I  didn't  believe  she  really 
loved  you.  And  she  said  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"That  she  couldn't  live  without  you." 

Mr.  Buel  turned  away,  then  rose  and  strode  to  the  door, 
where  he  stood  looking  out  into  the  night.  He  remained 
there  several  seconds,  his  face  averted.  The  moonlight  in 
the  narrow  rough  paved  street  between  limewashed  houses 


154       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

was  brilliantly  white.  Now  and  then  a  shadow  passed  the 
door,  but  there  was  little  noise.  At  length  by  Tieroic  meas- 
ures he  superimposed  calm  and  returned  to  them. 

"This  conversation  took  place  in  Paris  ?"  he  asked,  speak- 
ing in  a  dead  voice,  and  at  her  affirming  he  added :  "What 
was  the  outcome  of  it?" 

"I  promised  my  consent  to  her  marrying  you  if  she  would 
agree  to  neither  seeing  nor  communicating  with  you  for  four 
months.  If  she  still  felt  that  she  wanted  to  marry  you  at 
the  end  of  that  time  I  would  raise  no  obstacle  to  prevent 
it." 

"And  did  she  agree  ?" 

"Yes.  But  she  broke  her  word  the  night  before  we  left 
Madrid  when  she  wrote  to  you." 

"What  do  you  know  about  that  letter  ?  She  didn't  read  it 
to  you?" 

"No.    I  saw  her  post  it." 

"How  do  you  know  it  was  to  me  ?" 

"By  the  expression  on  her  face." 

"That  proves  nothing." 

"But  your  presence  in  Madrid  does.  You  would  not  have 
been  there  had  she  not  sent  for  you.  Will  you  read  it  to 
me?" 

"I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  destroyed  it." 

"I  have  been  honest  with  you.  The  least  you  can  do  is 
to  tell  me  what  she  wrote." 

"It  was  nothing  that  would  be  of  assistance  to  us  now. 
She  wrote  about  Madrid  and  said  she  wished  I  was  there. 
She  spoke  of  plans  to  go  into  the  mountains  on  a  sketching 
tour,  to  a  place  recommended  by  artists,  and  said  she  would 
let  me  know  the  results  of  her  pilgrimage.  If  the  town 
lived  up  to  expectations  she  wanted  me  to  follow  her  and 
would  let  me  know  on  arrival." 

"Did  she  write  you  from  here  ?" 

"No.  I  hastened  to  Madrid  as  soon  as  I  received  her 
letter.  I  went  at  once  to  the  de  k  Paz  and  they  told  me 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       155 

you  and  Miss  Cass  had  been  there  but  had  left.  They  did 
not  know  your  plans  or  destination.  And  Helena  had  left 
no  word  for  me.  I  waited  over  a  week,  each  day  expecting 
Helena  would  write,  but  I  never  heard  until  your  wire  came 
forwarded  from  Paris." 

They  were  silent.  The  mere  recounting  seemed  to  place 
Helena  very  near  to  them,  as  though  she  might  open  the 
door  any  minute  and  ask  why  they  were  looking  so  pro- 
digiously serious.  They  both  remembered  poignantly,  her 
laugh,  which  was  at  first  low  and  chuckling,  almost  silent, 
and  later  rose  a  sustained  cadence  like  a  singer's  voice. 
People  called  her  laugh  "contagious." 

Then  Mr.  Buel  continued: 

"You  both  arrived  at  midnight,  and  you  saw  Helena 
for  the  last  time  when  you  kissed  her  good-night,  at  about 
one  o'clock.  It  was  ten  o'clock  when  you  went  to  her  room 
next  morning,  and  she  had  vanished  and  all  trace  of  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  she  evidently  did  not  attempt  to  write  to  me  that 
night  before  retiring  or  else  ..." 

He  paused. 

Mrs.  Cass  spoke  in  a  stoical  voice: 

"Finish  your  sentence." 

"Or  else  she  was  killed  before  she  posted  it.  For  no  let- 
ter reached  the  post.  I  should  have  thought  she  would 
have  felt  the  need  of  a  man  here." 

"Helena  never  had  any  sense  of  fear.  She  remarked  the 
fonda  was  primitive  but  clean  and  she  thought  we  were 
going  to  be  quite  happy." 

The  detectives,  who  by  this  time  had  listened  to  the  story 
throughout,  now  wished  to  go  above  stairs  and  see  room 
"number  five,"  and  to  renew  the  incidents  as  they  had  been 
related.  Don  Rodolfo  was  not  in  his  room.  He  was  not 
in  the  habit  of  returning  from  the  venta  until  three  or  four 
in  the  morning,  and  then  slept  until  noonday.  As  the  detec- 
tives examined  the  room  they  questioned  Mrs.  Cass  for 
details  of  it  as  it  had  appeared  to  her  on  the  evening  of 
their  arrival.  She  repeated  descriptions  of  a  tester  bed 


156       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

under  curtains  and  walls  embowered  in  fuchsias  and  love 
birds.  Already  the  account  sounded  foreign  to  the  fonda 
and  she  found  herself  wondering  if  the  room  had  really 
looked  as  she  remembered.  Other  happenings  had  crowded 
out  the  vision  of  the  room  until  it  seemed  less  real  than  a 
vivid  dream  terminated  by  a  sudden  awakening. 

The  detectives  interviewed  Don  Pedro,  Maria  de  la  Con- 
cepcione  and  Don  Rodolfo.  They  told  the  same  story  as 
before.  When  assured  that  Miss  Cass  had  been  seen  and 
recognised  and  was  known  to  have  come  to  Fuente  la 
Higuera,  they  marvelled.  They  had  not  seen  her.  They 
knew  they  were  no  longer  believed  and  their  efforts  to  im- 
pugn Mrs.  Cass's  sanity  were  useless,  but  they  did  not  vary 
their  original  statements.  It  mattered  little  that  their  in- 
quisitors knew  they  were  all  criminally  implicated,  since 
they  had  destroyed  all  evidence. 

The  detectives  talked  with  the  alcalde  and  townsmen  and 
though  they  realised  a  crime  had  been  committed,  they 
could  say  no  evil  of  Don  Pedro.  Of  Don  Rodolfo  they 
were  more  guarded  in  their  terms  of  praise.  He  had  lived 
in  the  town  over  several  months,  and  there  were  rumours 
in  Cuesta  del  Espinal,  where  he  came  from,  that  he  had 
been  guilty  of  stealing  sheep  and  performing  other  out- 
rages. The  men  of  Fuente  la  Higuera  liked  not  to  play 
cards  with  him  since  he  had  a  facility  in  winning  which 
suggested  dishonourable  means.  But  although  every  ef- 
fort had  been  made  in  which  to  entrap  him,  they  had  failed 
to  find  him  guilty,  and  in  the  meantime  he  continued  to  win 
the  small  earnings  of  the  neighbours. 

Cards  were  also  Don  Pedro's  one  passion,  for  drink,  it 
appeared,  was  rarely  the  vice  of  the  Spaniard.  His  brain 
was  crafty,  full  of  tricks  but  never  befuddled.  It  seemed 
Maria  de  la  Concepcione  was  not  his  amiga  as  seemed  more 
natural,  but  actually  his  wife.  So  far  as  could  be  ascer- 
tained his  life  had  been  blameless  in  the  past  and  for  years 
back  he  had  lived  well  within  the  boundaries  of  law  and 
order,  or  else  in  his  crimes  had  shown  exceptional  agility 
in  dodging  all  suspicion. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       157 

At  the  end  of  a  few  days,  not  satisfied  that  the  detectives 
had  made  any  perceptible  headway  against  the  darkness 
which  enshrouded  the  disappearance,  Mr.  Buel  placed  the 
case  in  the  hands  of  the  Guardia  Civile.  Following  this,  an 
account  of  Miss  Cass's  disappearance  appeared  in  every 
newspaper  in  Spain.  Already  a  week  had  passed  and 
their  results  were  as  discouraging  as  those  of  Mrs.  Cass 
and  Mr.  Tooker  unaided.  From  the  Spanish  press  the  news 
was  copied  in  the  Pans  edition  of  the  New  York  Herald, 
followed  by  all  the  papers  of  France,  England  and  Italy. 
In  less  than  forty-eight  hours  the  case  became  celebrated 
throughout  Europe.  Americans  travelling  abroad  asked 
themselves  what  could  have  happened.  They  were  inclined 
to  scepticism  over  the  usual  disappearance  but  this  seemed 
a  matter  of  actual  kidnapping.  Of  course  the  girl  would 
be  found,  they  agreed,  as  one  couldn't  vanish  and  not  leave 
some  trace  somewhere.  And  in  the  meantime  it  did  pro- 
vide a  passe-temps  to  speculate  on  what  had  happened. 

Coupled  with  the  agony  of  her  loss,  Mrs.  Cass  realised 
the  responsibility  to  her  family  in  America.  She  had  been 
careful  not  to  write  her  fears  until  a  vigorous  search  had 
been  instigated,  and  then,  following  the  disheartening  days 
in  which  no  conclusions  were  arrived  at,  she  knew  she  could 
wait  no  longer.  Before  the  news  had  passed  outside  of 
Spain  she  cabled  Mr.  Cass  that  Helena  was  lost. 


XVIII 

A  DOZEN  pairs  of  dirty  hands  were  extended  to  carry 
Jay  Sefton's  bag  as  he  stepped  onto  the  platform  at  El 
Cerrito  from  the  Madrid  expresso  next  day.  He  looked  at 
the  shrewd  young  faces  before  him  and  decided  that  he 
wished  to  carry  his  own  bag  himself.  Taking  several 
centimes  from  his  pocket  he  hurled  them  into  the  plaza  and 
there  followed  a  scramble  from  the  group  of  boys  whose 
sole  occupation  seemed  to  wait  upon  the  chances  of  fulfill- 
ing small  commissions  from  arriving  trains.  As  they  rolled 
over  on  the  flagging  in  their  fight  for  coppers  a  group  of 
startled  pigeons  took  to  the  upper  air. 

Mr.  Sefton  turned  to  the  station  master  to  inquire  about 
the  diligence  to  Fuente  la  Higuera.  Learning  that  there 
was  a  half  hour  before  it  was  scheduled  to  leave  and  per- 
haps longer  he  went  to  the  hotel  and  despatched  a  hasty 
meal.  Upon  returning  he  was  stopped  by  a  street-vendor 
selling  clasp-knives.  He  purchased  one,  not  knowing  pre- 
cisely what  use  it  was  to  answer,  but  feeling  it  was  a  wise 
possession  placed  it  in  his  kit-bag. 

At  the  diligence  he  found  another  fellow  traveller  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  the  cochero.  And  from  him  he  learnt 
that  Angel  had  met  with  a  serious  mishap  a  few  months 
before,  due  to  his  unfortunate  habit  of  refreshing  himself 
at  the  halfway  house.  One  of  the  mules  had  been  killed 
in  driving  off  the  embankment  while  he  was  inebriate,  and 
Angel  himself,  although  that  was  a  small  matter,  had  been 
crippled  for  several  months.  The  present  driver,  who  ap- 
peared presently,  was  middle-aged  with  only  one  remaining 
eye,  a  cast  having  completely  covered  the  other,  and  was 
therefore  known  to  all  the  travellers  as  "El  Tuerto."  He 
was  an  evil-looking  man,  his  face  thin  and  bloodless,  his 
jaw  unshaven,  his  clothes  ill-cared  for. 

158 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       159 

As  Sefton  took  his  place  beside  the  cochero  on  the  front 
seat  he  felt  there  was  every  chance  of  his  having  occasion 
to  use  his  knife.  Within  the  diligence  were  three  travellers, 
the  cura,  an  elderly  man  in  soutane  and  shovel-hat,  and 
two  townsmen.  The  one-eyed  pulled  out  his  whip,  and  the 
muleif  after  quivering  in  anticipation  of  his  blows  sprang 
forward  and  in  a  moment  they  were  clear  of  the  streets  of 
the  town.  In  the  night  beyond  the  scene  became  purely  one 
of  conjecture. 

Sefton  attempted  from  time  to  time  some  sort  of  con- 
versation with  the  one-eyed,  but  the  cochero  seemed  morose, 
not  given  to  exchanges  of  confidences,  and  he  learnt  little 
from  him.  The  trip  would  have  been  tedious  but  for  the 
recklessness  of  his  driving  which  skirted  a  dozen  potential 
deaths.  They  stopped  at  the  darkened  venta  only  long 
enough  to  discharge  merchandise  and  then  continued.  An 
hour  later  their  journey  ended.  The  euro,  and  the  two 
travellers  bade  each  other  "buenos  noches"  and  separated, 
going  in  different  directions. 

Making  his  way  to  the  -fonda,  Sefton  found  a  light  still 
burning  and  a  welcome  waiting  for  him  from  the  posadero. 
Don  Pedro  grasped  his  kit-bag  from  his  unwilling  hand, 
saying  fluently:  "My  poor  house  and  all  that  is  in  it  are 
yours."  Room  number  eight,  it  appeared,  was  at  the  trav- 
eller's disposal  and  Don  Pedro  made  as  if  to  climb  the 
stairs  when  Mr.  Sefton  detained  him. 

"There  is  only  one  room  in  the  fonda  which  I  want," 
he  said,  "and  that  is  number  five." 

The  Spaniard's  fine  eyes  flickered  for  a  moment  and  his 
features  became  inscrutable  as  though  a  mirror  that  re- 
flected a  face  had  suddenly  been  breathed  upon.  Then  he 
set  down  his  candle. 

"The  Senor  has  spoken.  I  am  sorry  if  no  other  room 
will  suit  him,  but  number  five  is  already  engaged." 

Mr.  Sefton  picked  up  his  bag. 

"Then  I  shall  have  to  look  elsewhere  for  quarters.  Since 
the  village  does  not  boast  another  casa  de  huespedes  per- 
haps the  alcalde  or  the  cura  will  take  in  a  stranger." 


160       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

The  posadero's  face  was  suddenly  lit  with  an  animation 
that  could  be  called  forth  at  will.  His  eyes  sparkled  like 
black  diamonds  and  he  smiled,  laying  bare  a  double  row  of 
milk-white  teeth. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  placing  a  brown  hand  upon 
his  arm.  "Do  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  leave  my  house.  Room 
number  five  is  not  engaged  .  only  I  am  loath  to  let  you 
have  it.  I  am  superstitious.  I  tell  you  this  frankly ;  some 
disaster  attends  every  person  who  occupies  that  room,  and 
so  I  had  decided  not  to  rent  it  again.  Now,  number  eight 
is  very  comfortable." 

"Senor,  already  I  absolve  you  of  any  duplicity.  I  am 
not  superstitious.  Let  me  assure  you,  nothing  will  happen 
to  me  in  number  five.  Or  if  it  does,  it  will  not  be  your 
fault." 

"You  are  very  brave,  Sefior." 

"My  courage  does  not  warrant  your  compliment." 

"It  shall  be  as  you  wish.  Only  tell  me  how  you  have 
heard  of  this  room." 

His  eyes  glittered  and  he  covered  his  teeth  with  full  over- 
red  lips.  They  were  not  the  lips  of  an  anchorite,  Sefton 
mused,  as  he  attempted  a  better  understanding  of  the 
knave. 

"Two  English  ladies,  sisters,  who  were  artists,  stopped 
here  over  three  years  ago.  And  they  told  me  of  the  room." 

For  a  moment  his  face  remained  a  blank  in  the  process 
of  attempting  to  place  these  people  in  his  shifting  memory, 
but  presently  he  gave  it  up  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"Doubtless,  but  I  have  forgotten  them.  Many,  many 
people  come  to  my  house.  Always  it  is  crowded,  so  I  can- 
not remember  them.  But  Sefior  has  the  room  of  his  choice. 
At  all  costs  I  wish  the  Senor  happy." 

Sefton  bowed  ceremoniously. 

"Your  hospitality  is  exceeded  only  by  your  goodness  of 
heart." 

A  few  minutes  later,  having  registered  upon  a  strip  of 
paper  that  was  inserted  in  the  visitors-book,  he  followed 
Don  Pedro  upstairs.  His  host  unlatched  and  threw  open 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       161 

the  door  of  number  five  and  entering  set  down  the  candle 
on  the  table  by  the  bedside.  The  room  had  changed  in  no 
detail  from  the  description  Consul  Tooker  had  given  him. 
He  was  amazed  by  the  accuracy  of  the  man's  memory. 
Bare  white  walls,  a  tiled  floor,  furnished  with  a  narrow  bed 
that  suggested  a  sleepless  night,  two  chairs,  a  table  and  an 
armoire.  Above  the  bed  was  an  ebony  crucifix  to  which 
was  nailed  a  silver  Christ. 

Don  Pedro  placed  the  bag  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the 
window  and  parted  the  curtains,  then  turned  to  his  guest, 
his  manner  begging  commendation. 

"It  is  undeniably  a  pleasant  room/'  Mr.  Sefton  said,  con- 
scious of  its  cold  and  dampness. 

"It  is  no  more  than  befits  you.  But  there  is  not  another 
like  it  in  Fuente  la  Higuera.  I,  Pedro,  tell  you  so." 

Arrangements  for  breakfast  were  settled,  and  then  Don 
Pedro  went  below  stairs.  Sefton  looked  dubiously  at  the 
bed  and  his  eyes  made  the  circuit  of  the  bare  walls.  He 
glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  just  ten  o'clock.  He  picked 
up  his  hat,  went  downstairs  and  let  himself  out. 

The  village  was  closed  for  the  night  and  the  streets 
through  which  he  strolled  were  deserted  or  almost  so.  A 
red  star  glowed  at  the  corner  beneath  a  shrine  where  some 
penitent  had  besought  indulgences.  Occasionally  a  dull 
lighted  square  showed  behind  a  curtained  grille.  Sefton 
strolled  across  the  market-place,  passed  the  church,  the 
alcaldia,  the  better  dwellings  of  the  village.  He  made  a 
complete  tour  of  the  village  twice  and  then  entered  the 
estaneo  where  tobacco  and  lottery  tickets  were  sold.  He 
purchased  stamps  here  from  the  woman  behind  her  counter, 
who  was  at  the  moment  busily  engaged  in  nursing  her  baby. 
At  a  marble-topped  table  two  men  were  occupied  at  a 
game  of  dominoes.  The  room  was  blue  with  smoke  from 
them  and  their  companions  watching  the  game.  He  was 
kept  waiting  a  few  minutes  while  the  young  widow  dis- 
engaged herself  from  her  domestic  preoccupations,  and  the 
onlookers  took  this  opportunity  to  salute  the  stranger,  and 
wish  him  well.  When  the  woman  was  free  to  attend  to 


1 62       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

his  needs  he  noticed  as  she  handed  him  the  stamps  that  her 
fingers  were  tobacco-stained.  Weighing  the  leaf  in  bulk 
upon  the  government  scales  it  seemed  was  her  chief  affair, 
since  her  patrons  made  each  his  own  cigarettes.  Good- 
nights  were  called  to  him  as  he  left  the  estaneo  and  he  felt 
the  curse  of  being  a  stranger  had  been  lifted. 

Returning  to  the  fonda,  he  mounted  the  stair,  entered  his 
room,  undressed  and  lay  down  for  the  night.  For  a  long 
time  he  remained  quiet  in  the  dark,  the  thought  of  sleep 
distant.  He  had  no  fear  of  anything  that  could  be  done 
to  him  in  that  ill-fated  room,  but  he  recoiled  from  fresh 
surmises  of  what  had  happened  to  Miss  Cass.  A  revisual- 
isation  of  Don  Pedro  persisted  in  the  dark  which  all  his 
will  power  could  not  dissolve.  He  saw  the  olive  face,  the 
eyes  black  and  stinging,  the  curiously  dark  flesh  that  sur- 
rounded them.  He  could  not  blot  out  of  his  mind  the  bared 
teeth  glistening  beneath  the  lips  of  a  voluptuary.  His 
mouth  was  unlike  that  of  any  European  he  had  ever  seen. 
It  was  the  colour  of  a  hibiscus  flower,  an  unnatural  red, 
soft,  like  one  of  the  great  red  carnations  Spanish  women 
wore  in  their  hair.  The  fancy  of  those  lips  torturing 
Helena  Cass,  seering  her  flesh,  purposeful,  burning  like  a 
branding-iron,  made  him  turn  on  his  bed. 

And  then  he  thought  once  again  of  the  posadero's  eyes, 
cunning,  practical,  and  they  seemed  to  deny  the  indulgence 
of  the  mouth.  His  eyes  were  not  those  of  a  man  who  gave 
free  rein  to  his  impulses.  Sefton  had  to  admit  that  al- 
though he  was  able  to  read  most  people,  the  unfamiliar 
physiognomy  of  a  subtle  race  in  which  was  commingled  the 
furtiveness  of  the  Arab  and  the  simplicity  of  the  Moor, 
held  him  captive.  He  did  not  know  what  had  happened  to 
Helena,  or  what  influences  had  been  at  work. 

He  was  awakened  next  morning  by  Concha,  who  tapped 
upon  his  door,  and  not  waiting  for  his  answer  entered  the 
room.  She  felt  no  timidity  in  finding  him  still  in  bed,  for 
to  her  a  man  was  never  a  man  unless  a  Spaniard.  For- 
eigners were  people  who  paid  for  things,  but  aside  from 
their  pocketbooks  no  other  portion  of  them  functioned. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       163 

First  she  closed  the  window  with  a  grunt  of  disapproval, 
that  anyone  could  survive  so  stupid  an  upbringing  that  in- 
cluded sleeping  in  une  corriente.  Then  she  disappeared 
and  returned  carrying  a  brasier  with  a  few  live  coals  and  a 
small  pair  of  bellows.  These  were  placed  on  one  side  of 
the  bed  to  temper  the  cold  room,  after  which  she  placed  a 
tray  across  his  knees  holding  a  cup  of  thick  chocolate  and 
buiiuelos.  Then  she  left  as  stolidly  as  she  had  come. 

He  knew  that  his  being  in  Fuente  la  Higuera  without 
occupation  had  seemed  suspicious  and  condemnatory  to 
both  Don  Pedro  and  his  Concha.  He  did  not  doubt  that 
they  knew  his  real  reason  for  being  there.  And  yet  if  it 
were  possible  to  deceive  them  he  realised  it  was  worth 
attempting.  Therefore,  during  a  long  talk  that  evening 
with  the  posadero  he  explained  that  he  was  a  novelist  and 
was  travelling  in  Spain  for  the  purpose  of  writing  a  book 
about  the  country.  To  supplement  this  he  was  able  to  show 
pages  of  manuscript.  He  knew  Don  Pedro  doubted  him 
but  was  impressed. 

During  the  days  which  followed  he  began  a  careful  in- 
vestigation of  room  number  five.  The  rooms  adjoining  his 
were  unoccupied.  In  fact  he  was  the  only  guest  at  the 
fonda  except  for  two  Spaniards,  travelling  merchants  or 
the  like.  He  had  attempted  conversation  with  them  and 
concluded  that  they  could  in  no  way  be  useful  to  him. 
Sefton  felt  he  was  not  watched  while  in  his  room.  He  had 
purchased  a  bottle  of  ink  and  when  he  went  out  he  left  a 
disorder  of  paper  on  the  table  and  floor  to  carry  out  the 
impression  that  he  had  been  writing.  In  reality  he  had 
removed  several  tiles  from  the  floor  and  had  continued 
systematic  rappings  on  the  walls,  to  see  if  there  could  be 
any  disused  or  secret  passageway  where  victims  could  be 
hidden.  Several  days  were  given  over  to  this  search  which 
he  soon  abandoned  as  wasted  time,  and  once  more  con- 
tinued his  walks  through  the  town. 

One  afternoon  he  decided  to  make  a  call  upon  the  Alcalde 
and  directing  his  steps  thither  he  rang  and  was  admitted  to 
the  sitting-room  of  that  dignitary.  After  a  wait  of  several 


1 64       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

minutes  the  Alcalde  was  summoned  and  appeared  drowsily 
from  an  interrupted  siesta.  Mr.  Sefton  apologised  for  his 
inopportune  visit,  but  when  the  hospitable  Spaniard  learnt 
that  his  guest  was  writing  a  book  about  Spain  he  ordered  a 
bottle  of  Manzanilla  and  his  best  dolces.  He  inquired  if 
Mr.  Sefton  was  pleasantly  installed  at  the  fonda,  and  was 
gratified  to  learn  that  his  comfort  was  being  provided  for 
and  that  his  impressions  of  the  village  were  commendatory. 

"I  heard  of  Fuente  la  Higuera,"  Mr.  Sefton  remarked, 
"through  two  English  sisters,  spinsters,  who  came  here 
three  years  ago  to  paint.  They  told  me  it  was  picturesque." 

"So?" 

"Yes.  I  think  one  of  them  made  a  sketch  of  someone  at 
the  fonda.  Don  Rodolfo  .  .  .  Could  that  have  been  the 
name  ?" 

The  Alcalde  shook  his  head. 

"There  was  such  a  man  here,  but  he  has  gone  away." 

"When  did  he  go?" 

"A  year  or  more." 

"Is  he  alive?" 

"Unfortunately,  yes." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"I  couldn't  say,  Senor.  He's  at  one  of  the  villages  near- 
by, I  suppose.  A  very  undesirable  character.  He  and  Don 
Pedro  had  a  falling  out  and  to-day  they  are  bitter  enemies." 

"What  was  his  profession?" 

"I  would  rather  not  say." 

While  Sefton  ate  the  candied  honey  and  pine  nuts  and 
drained  his  glass  of  Manzanilla  a  plan  formed  in  his  mind 
which  was  placed  in  execution  next  day.  Accordingly  he 
left  Fuente  la  Higuera  abruptly  and  began  his  search. 

Don  Pedro  came  to  the  door  and  watched  him  leave,  a 
dampened  cigarette  hanging  dejectedly  from  the  corner  of 
his  mouth  undisturbed  by  his  volubility.  Sefton  had  made 
him  a  present  after  paying  his  bill,  assuring  him  of  his 
probable  return.  It  was  still  early  to  avow  his  enmity  to 
the  man;  instead  he  saluted  him  with  a  final  "Hasta  la 
Vista."  Then  he  entered  the  tartana  and  jogged  away 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       165 

behind  the  burro  down  the  mountain,  seated  beside  the 
driver,  his  bag  strapped  at  the  rear. 

The  services  of  the  One  Eyed  could  not  be  engaged  as 
he  had  decided  to  set  out  to  Cuesta  del  Espinal,  the  nearest 
village,  in  his  hunt  for  Don  Rodolfo,  and  the  roadway  was 
too  narrow  for  the  diligence.  He  was  counting  heavily  on 
the  hostility  between  Don  Rodolfo  and  the  posadero  as  the 
instrument  to  give  him  his  information.  Revenge  was  one 
of  the  staples  of  primitive  character  and  Don  Rodolfo  could 
be  urged  to  tell  anything,  or  so  he  argued,  as  long  as  it  was 
to  the  detriment  of  his  past  friend. 

During  the  two  weeks  that  followed  Sefton  visited  every 
village  within  a  radius  of  many  kilometres,  each  in  turn 
disheartening.  It  was  on  the  afternoon  he  set  out  to  Cin- 
dra  that  he  began  to  feel  the  weight  of  his  discouragement. 
He  made  the  journey  on  foot,  as  his  guide  apologised  for 
his  need  of  walking.  He  explained  that  his  she-ass  was 
with  foal  and  he,  poor  man,  owned  no  other  animal.  The 
distance  was  less  than  three  kilometres  and  Sefton  was 
glad  of  the  exercise.  They  were  an  oddly  assorted  pair  as 
they  set  out,  the  American  in  well-cut  knickerbockers  and 
woolen  stockings  that  showed  his  spare  figure  to  advantage, 
his  cap  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  a  walking-stick  in  his 
hand.  The  capa  in  which"  the  peasant  usually  muffled  him- 
self was  strapped  to  his  back  and  the  bag  on  the  end  of  a 
stick  slung  across  his  shoulder,  while  they  walked  one  in 
front  of  the  other.  Sefton,  who  noticed  his  companion 
was  not  young,  offered  to  carry  the  bag,  once  when  it  was 
placed  on  the  roadside  while  his  guide  rested.  But  the 
countryman  looked  at  him  reproachfully: 

"Do  not  think  I  would  allow  a  caballero  to  do  this  work. 
.  .  .  No,  Senor.  Tia  Juan  is  made  for  this.  He  is  fit  for 
nothing  better." 

Prickly  pears  grew  raggedly  along  their  road  and  they 
approached  coverts  of  bluish  coloured  aloes.  Here  and 
there  were  strips  of  Spanish  pine  trees,  the  lower  branches 
lopped  off  for  fire  wood,  only  the  upper  foliage  left  like 
elongated  plumes. 


1 66       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

It  was  dusk  when  they  approached  the  village  and 
Sefton's  heart  leapt  within  him  as  he  noticed  in  the  moun- 
tainside the  caves  of  the  gypsies.  They  were  discernible 
even  at  a  distance  by  their  whitewashed  entrances.  A  great 
spray  oi  smoke  rose  from  the  midst  of  their  encampment 
against  the  acid  green  of  the  evening  sky.  There  was  evi- 
dence of  haste  and  signs  of  an  intended  removal  from  the 
camp.  As  they  drew  near  men  and  women  of  the  tribe 
vociferated  among  themselves  and  then  were  sullen  as  the 
stranger  passed.  His  guide  crossed  himself. 

"Spawn  of  hell,"  he  muttered.     "Cursed  heretics." 

They  entered  the  gates  of  the  town  and  found  a  vivacious 
group  of  girls  at  the  fountain  in  the  plaza  drawing  water. 
He  watched  them  with  admiration,  their  splendid  upright 
carriage,  balancing  their  great  earthenware  botijos  on  their 
shoulders  as  they  moved  away.  His  guide  led  him  to  the 
door  of  the  fonda  where  he  inquired  if  Don  Rodolfo  was 
known  and  learnt  that  he  was  still  an  inmate  of  the  village. 

Sefton  slept  little  that  night.  The  excitement  of  being 
in  the  same  town  with  Don  Rodolfo  was  not  to  be  gainsaid. 
At  last  he  was  on  the  threshold  of  a  great  discovery.  He 
arose  next  morning  before  the  fonda  was  stirring  and  had 
to  wait  interminably  for  his  breakfast.  At  ten  o'clock, 
having  received  instructions  ot  the  man's  address,  he  set 
out  alone,  thinking  it  best  that  the  ruffian's  suspicions 
should  be  in  no  way  aroused  by  his  providing  himself  with 
witnesses.  He  made  his  way  to  the  poorest  street  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  village.  The  centre  of  the  narrow  calle 
formed  a  sink  where  past  rains  had  been  insufficient  to 
carry  away  the  waste  that  choked  it.  Odours  of  animals 
that  frequented  the  interiors  of  these  hovels  and  rancid 
cookery  outraged  his  nostrils. 

The  house  where  Don  Rodolfo  lived  was  one  of  extreme 
abjection.  An  old  woman  sat  in  the  doorway  making  lace, 
throwing  the  bobbins  with  her  withered  hands.  They  leapt 
and  danced  upon  her  lap  as  he  had  seen  beans  dance  that 
were  inhabited  by  worms.  She  put  down  the  intricate 
pattern,  of  which  a  large  portion  was  already  finished,  and 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       167 

looked  at  him  again.  Her  dry  old  lips  articulated  his  ques- 
tion after  him  when  he  asked  if  Don  Rodolfo  could  be  seen. 
Then  she  entered  the  house  which  contained  one  room  and 
standing  at  the  foot  of  a  ladder  that  went  up  the  side  of 
the  wall  she  gave  a  strange  animal  cry. 

Sefton  heard  a  movement  above.  The  floor  responded 
to  a  shifting  of  weight.  Then  followed  a  rustle  as  though 
the  person  were  lying  on  straw  or  husks.  A  moment  later 
a  face  appeared  in  the  aperture,  thin,  ravaged,  with  bitter 
black  eyes,  the  brow  of  one  lifted — by  an  old  knife-wound. 

"Who  wants  me,  mother?" 

The  crone  gave  an  inarticulate  sound  indicating  Sefton, 
who  stood  in  the  doorway.  Then  she  returned  once  more 
to  her  work  and  the  bobbins  continued  their  crazy  activity. 
The  men  eyed  each  other  a  moment  without  speech.  In 
that  moment  Don  Rodolfo  seemed  anticipatory  of  anyone 
of  a  dozen  misfortunes  that  had  ridden  him  to  ground.  His 
eyes,  radio-active,  pierced  Sefton's  composure.  Then  feel- 
ing he  had  nothing  to  fear,  his  usual  appearance  of  insensi- 
bility returned  and  he  asked  who  his  visitor  was  and  what 
he  might  require. 

Sefton  removed  his  gold  cigarette-case  and  lighted  a 
cigarette.  He  saw  the  man's  eyes  blaze  through  half-shut 
lids  at  the  gesture.  Then  he  remarked  if  Don  Rodolfo 
would  do  him  the  honour  to  come  downstairs  he  would  like 
a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  him.  The  face  thrust  out 
of  the  darkness,  paled  in  spite  of  its  olive  skin,  hesitated, 
sought  the  depository  of  the  gold  cigarette-case  and  agreed 
to  join  him  directly. 

Jay  Sefton  strolled  in  front  of  the  hovel,  breathing  deep 
of  the  air  to  exhaust  the  inhalations  of  the  stinking  room. 
He  turned  in  a  moment  at  an  imperceptible  sound  and 
found  Don  Rodolfo  silent-footed  beside  him.  The  clothes 
in  which  he  had  dressed  himself  consisted  only  of  a  ragged 
coat  and  trousers,  bare  feet  thrust  into  loose  slippers.  He 
took  the  cigarette  Mr.  Sefton  offered  him  with  a  greedy 
hand  which  showed  how  low  a  level  his  misfortunes  had 
reached  since  he  was  no  longer  able  to  supply  himself  with 


1 68       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

tobacco.  His  coat  without  buttons  hung  open  and  he  saw 
the  man's  coffee-coloured  body  through  a  rent  in  his  shirt 
in  which  his  ribs  lay  bare.  The  miserable  fellow's  condi- 
tion was  one  of  positive  penury. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me,  Senor?" 

"To  know  what  became  oF  the  Sefiorita  Cass." 

"The  Senorita  Cass?    I  know  no  such  person." 

"You  will  allow  me  the  privilege  of  differing  to  the  ex- 
tent of  not  believing  your  words.  Don  Pedro  has  told  me 
his  version  of  her  disappearance,  for  which  he  says  you 
were  responsible.  In  self-defense  it  seems  to  me  you 
should  tell  me  just  what  happened." 

The  man  loosened  horrible  imprecations.  He  smote  his 
temples,  feeling  a  rage  plethoric,  impotent,  that  all  but 
strangled  him.  He  questioned  the  legitimacy  of  his  en- 
emy's birth.  One  of  his  parents  had  been  a  goat.  Then 
at  length  he  cried,  through  his  teeth,  his  jaws  clenched: 

"He  told  you  that?" 

"Yes.  You  see  it  is  obvious  he  can  do  you  further  harm. 
You  haven't  benefited  yourself  just  at  present.  And  of 
course  if  you  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know  I  shall  make 
you  a  present." 

It  required  no  further  urging.  Sefton  knew  he  could 
profit  by  Don  Rodolfo's  position.  It  was  understood  they 
were  to  lunch  at  noonday  at  a  venta  outside  the  town.  Mr. 
Sefton  was  pledged  to  provide  a  meal  and  wine,  and  to 
make  his  guest  an  already  stipulated  gift  of  confidence,  for 
which  consideration  he  was  to  hear  the  truth. 

"Vaya!"  Rodolfo  cried.  "You  shall  hear  all  you  wish  of 
that  .  .  .  that  rat-scorpion  .  .  .  that  spider-crab.  .  .  .  You 
shall  hear." 

The  Inn  of  the  Stars  was  a  not  unfriendly  spot  for  all 
that  it  seemed  to  cling  to  the  side  of  the  mountain  more 
through  a  faith  in  Saint  Trinidad  than  through  any  archi- 
tectural support.  Part  of  its  construction  overhung  a  ravine 
and  below  at  a  great  depth  was  an  ochre  flow  of  sullen 
water  that  had  worn  its  course  deep  into  the  rocks.  It  had 
been  said  that  no  rascal  planning  his  victim's  destruction 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       169 

but  attempted  to  urge  his  coming  to  this  place.  But  it  had 
its  pleasanter  associations.  It  was  the  favorite  haunt  for  a 
merienda,  and  the  cheerful  host  had  a  light  hand  on  the 
guitar  and  could  frequently  be  urged  to  play  for  the  young 
women  to  instruct  their  elders  how  the  jota  should  be 
danced. 

The  inn  was  approached  by  a  small  cork  wood,  most  of 
the  trees  badly  lacerated  showing  red  through  their  re- 
moved bark.  And  close  to  the  ravine,  their  roots  exposed, 
were  a  group  of  eucalypti.  Their  leaves  were  the  shape 
of  pendant  scimiters  and  in  every  breeze  they  continued 
their  incessant  whispering.  One  of  the  trees  had  broken 
into  premature  blossom  and  its  great  height  was  covered 
with  a  foam  of  flower. 

Sefton  met  Don  Rodolfo  two  hours  later,  according  to 
appointment,  in  the  road  before  the  venta.  During  his 
absence  the  Spaniard  had  made  no  apparent  change  in  his 
very  limited  apparel.  The  meal  had  already  been  ordered 
and  was  being  prepared.  The  breeze  brought  the  odours 
of  roasting  kid  cooked  out  of  doors  over  a  fire  behind  the 
inn.  A  private-room  for  lunch  was  practically  unheard-of, 
but  it  was  finally  arranged  that  their  meal  should  be  served 
them  upstairs  where  they  should  remain  undisturbed.  All 
the  delights  of  a  gastronome  were  placed  on  the  white  cloth 
before  them.  Roasted  meat,  a  pisto,  a  traditional  dish  of 
eggs  and  pimento,  cinnamon  paste  and  Murviedo  cheese. 

Don  Rodolfo  took  his  wine  at  a  single  draught.  With  a 
piece  of  bread  he  scoured  his  plate  to  wipe  up  the  sauce 
and  swallowed  it  wolfishly.  His  hand  trembled  as  he  helped 
himself  a  second  time  to  the  pisto.  He  took  a  piece  of  flesh 
up  in  his  fingers  and  tore  at  it  with  his  teeth  carnivorously. 
It  was  obvious  the  man  hadn't  tasted  food  in  days.  His 
hunger  was  distressing  to  witness  and  its  appeasement  re- 
volted. Sefton  moved  his  chair  and  sat  smoking,  refusing 
the  sweets  and  fruit,  but  Don  Rodolfo  helped  himself  to 
each  dish  in  turn. 

At  length  his  guest's  rapacity  eased,  having  over-eaten 
himself,  Sefton  offered  his  cigarette-case.  Don  Rodolfo 


170       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

lighted  one  and  moved  his  chair  away  from  the  table  with 
a  groan.  Events  had  undoubtedly  gone  against  him  since 
he  and  Don  Pedro  had  quarrelled.  He  ground  an  epithet 
between  his  teeth.  Sefton  took  out  his  wallet.  It  con- 
tained the  money  he  had  promised. 

"Now,  Don  Rodolfo,"  he  cried. 

The  man's  face  was  crafty  as  he  began  his  story,  but 
later  some  of  the  passion  of  it  carried  conviction.  It  wasn't 
entirely,  so  the  listener  decided,  a  matter  of  playing  up  to 
what  was  expected  in  exchange  for  a  fee.  But  there  were 
times  when  Sefton  rose  from  his  chair  in  horror,  and  then 
he  as  hastily  reseated  himself,  fearing  in  any  way  to  break 
the  continuity.  Much  of  what  was  said  was  extravagant; 
most  of  it  was  untrue,  particularly  those  parts  in  which  he 
was  concerned.  But  Sefton's  eclectic  mind  sifted  and  re- 
tained those  portions  of  the  story  which  were  likely  until 
he  felt  that  he  had  entered  into  the  mental  processes  of 
their  victim. 


XIX 

AFTER  Miss  Cass  had  kissed  her  mother  good  night  she 
closed  and  locked  her  door  and  then  remained  standing 
before  it,  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  next.  It  was  one 
o'clock.  She  realised  it  was  time  she  retired  and  yet  she 
felt  particularly  rebellious  at  the  thought  of  sleep. 

She  remained  for  a  while  lost  in  thought,  her  eyes  fas- 
tened upon  the  enclosing  walls  with  their  fantastic  decora- 
tions of  fuchsias  on  a  yellow  ground,  each  bouquet  orna- 
mented with  love  birds.  Her  thoughts  returned  to  Jordan 
Buel,  as  they  had  at  short  intervals  throughout  the  day  past. 
Miss  Cass  had  agreed  to  write  him  on  her  arrival,  that  he 
might  know  her  plans.  The  necessity  of  not  keeping  faith 
with  her  mother  was  abhorrent  to  her,  yet  she  satisfied  her- 
self on  this  point  by  deciding  she  would  tell  her  in  the 
morning  that  she  had  written  Buel  for  a  second  time  since 
making  her  promise  in  Pans  not  to.  She  attempted  to  re- 
assure herself  that  her  open  declaration  would  in  itself 
absolve  her  of  disobedience. 

She  removed  the  fountain  pen  and  paper  from  her  bag 
and  drew  up  a  rush-bottomed  chair  before  the  dressing- 
table,  since  this  was  the  only  flat  surface  the  room  con- 
tained upon  which  she  could  write.  She  was  hesitating  as 
to  her  mode  of  address,  when  she  bethought  herself  that 
she  did  not  know  where  to  leave  her  letter  and  the  night 
clerk  below  stairs  had  probably  retired  at  this  hour.  The 
diligence  which  plied  between  Fuente  la  Higuera  and  El 
Cerrito  made  the  trip  only  twice  a  week  so  that  her  letter 
could  not  go  on  the  morrow. 

This  decided  her  and  she  was  in  the  act  of  putting  away 
pen  and  paper  when  she  caught  sight  of  her  reflection  in 
the  glass  before  her.  The  look  in  her  eyes,  ugly,  accusa- 
tory, filled  her  with  fear.  Surely  those  were  not  her  eyes. 

171 


i72       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

She  had  never  looked  like  that.  She  was  looking  into  a 
particularly  distorted  mirror,  she  reassured  herself.  Miss 
Cass  opened  her  dressing  bag  and  took  from  it  her  own 
hand-glass.  She  held  it  close  to  the  candle,  and  she  who 
was  without  vanity  slowly  surveyed  her  features,  as  a 
scientist  might  the  peripheries  of  some  recently  discovered 
phenomena.  On  the  plastic  mask  of  her  face  she  appeared 
to  "try  on"  certain  expressions.  But  after  several  minutes 
of  attention  she  was  still  shocked  by  the  rigour  of  her  face, 
an  expression  of  determination,  dogged,  steadfast,  a  bold- 
ness of  eye,  and  a  compression  of  lips  that  had  become  per- 
manent. .  .  .  She  slipped  the  hand-glass  back  into  her 
bag  and  began  her  preparations  for  the  night. 

She  removed  the  pins  from  her  hair,  brushed  it  methodi- 
cally until  its  thick  blackness  glistened,  then  plaited  it 
swiftly.  Her  clothes  she  cast  over  the  back  of  a  chair, 
slipped  on  a  nightdress  and  threw  over  it  a  peignoir  of  dark 
silk.  Then  she  moved  the  chair  close  to  her  bed,  balanced 
the  candle  in  the  middle  of  it  since  there  was  no  table  she 
could  use,  and  cautiously  got  into  bed.  This  performance 
was  despatched  in  five  minutes,  and  then  feeling  that 
sleep  was  deferred  for  several  hours  she  opened  a  new 
volume  of  La  Pardo-Bazan  which  she  had  attempted  to 
read  on  the  train. 

She  read  several  pages  automatically  and  then  found  her- 
self drowsily  wondering  at  the  meaning  of  quite  simple 
words.  She  reread  whole  sentences  where  the  meaning 
had  eluded  her.  But  she  found  after  going  over  them  a 
second  and  a  third  time  that  they  were  no  clearer.  Her 
brain  felt  curiously  numb  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her 
that  she  must  be  falling  asleep.  She  stupidly  laid  aside  the 
book  and  making  an  immense  effort  at  wakefulness,  she 
raised  herself  on  one  elbow  and  managed  to  blow  out  her 
candle.  A  little  light  entered  the  room  from  the  window 
which  gave  on  to  the  street,  but  the  draperies  which  fell 
from  the  canopy  kept  the  occupant  of  the  bed  in  com- 
plete darkness,  and  almost  at  once  she  was  asleep. 

As   Miss   Cass   wakened   she   remembered  thinking   she 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        173 

must  have  been  exhausted,  for  sleep  had  been  dreamless, 
and  only  a  loud  and  insistent  sound  could  have  aroused 
her.  With  a  return  to  a  sentient  state  she  wondered  what 
the  noise  could  have  been. 

There  was  no  movement  in  her  room;  no  sound.  Yet 
with  a  suddenness  that  was  animal  she  realised  she  was  not 
alone.  Even  then  she  did  not  open  her  eyes.  She  was 
conscious  of  the  changed  beating  of  her  pulse.  Little 
hammers  were  striking  themselves  upon  all  parts  of  her 
body.  She  attempted  to  control  her  breathing  into  long, 
slow,  natural  breaths,  so  that  whoever  the  occupant  might 
be  he  should  remain  deceived. 

She  heard  a  rustling  behind  the  curtains  of  her  bed,  and 
realised  it  must  be  a  rat  and  was  about  to  rise  and  light 
her  candle.  Her  eyes  were  open  now,  piercing  the  dark- 
ness although  she  could  not  decipher  anything.  At  that 
moment  she  heard  a  slippered  foot  on  the  tiled  floor.  To 
her  thoroughly  roused  senses  the  sound  was  loud  although 
her  critical  sense  told  her  it  was  almost  inaudible.  The 
sweat  formed  on  her  forehead.  Her  hands  were  moist 
with  fear.  She  who  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be 
afraid  was  now  drained  by  fright. 

Her  feelings  did  not  permit  an  analysis.  She  knew  her 
fear  was  occasioned  less  by  her  discovery  than  by  her  in- 
ability to  explain  the  purpose  of  the  visit.  She  wondered 
if  she  had  moved  upon  waking  and  that  had  deterred  the 
intruder  from  further  investigation.  She  waited.  The 
sound  was  not  repeated.  She  was  almost  ready  to  pass 
over  the  experience  as  an  hallucination  of  half  wakefulness. 
The  only  efficient  means  of  proving  this  was  to  leap  out  of 
bed  and  look  behind  the  curtains. 

Miss  Cass  was  about  to  put  this  plan  into  action  when 
she  heard  once  again  the  sound  of  a  slippered  foot  on  the 
floor.  He  had  taken  another  noiseless  step.  She  knew  in- 
stinctively it  was  the  night  clerk.  She  asked  herself  what 
had  been  his  method  of  ingress.  By  the  window?  .  .  . 
No.  He  had  a  pass  key.  She  wondered  that  she  had  not 


i74       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

suspected  the  man's  plausibility  before.  The  strange 
Moorish  face  .  .  .  the  sensitive  dark  hands! 

What  did  he  "want? 

The  thought  stiffened  the  hair  of  her  head.  She  lay 
rigid.  He  was  close  now.  Suddenly  she  felt  the  pillow 
under  her  lifted  ever  so  adroitly  while  his  hand  was  in- 
serted to  see  what  was  hidden  there.  His  search  was  de- 
liberate. The  pillow  was  not  lowered  until  the  hand  had 
made  ample  exploration  notwithstanding  that  it  remained 
unrewarded.  Next  she  could  feel  it  burrowing  under  the 
mattress. 

He  leaned  over  her.  Did  he  know  she  was  not  asleep  ? 
That  this  was  only  pretence  ?  She  was  aware  of  the  man's 
bitter  breath,  his  face  close  to  her  own.  .  .  .  She  was  lying 
with  her  left  arm  underneath  her,  and  it  was  her  left  hand 
that  wore  the  navette-shaped  diamond.  She  knew  now  what 
he  wanted;  it  was  her  ring. 

He  drew  her  right  hand  from  underneath  the  counter- 
pane and  then  replaced  it  gently.  He  lifted  her  body  ever 
so  slightly  and  removed  her  left  hand  from  under  her. 
Her  ring  fitted  closely  below  her  knuckle  but  he  had  no 
difficulty  in  removing  it.  A  feeling  half  fear,  half  indigna- 
tion shook  her  as  he  drew  it  from  her  finger. 

Surely  he  knew  she  was  not  asleep !  He  knew  she  was 
afraid  to  cry  out  or  defy  him! 

There  was  a  pause.  Was  he  examining  the  ring  ?  Would 
he  go  now?  Through  closed  lids  she  was  aware  that  the 
light  in  the  room  was  stronger.  Had  he  lighted  a  taper? 
She  thought  to  half  open  her  eyes.  As  she  did  so  she 
realised  he  was  bending  above  her,  watching  her  in  closest 
scrutiny. 

She  was  wearing  a  necklace  under  the  lace  and  ribbon 
of  her  nightdress.  She  felt  his  fingers  pulsing  below  her 
throat.  With  his  hand  upon  her  bosom  she  was  no  longer 
able  to  simulate  sleep.  The  touch  of  him  upon  her  breast 
outraged  her.  It  brought  her  heart  up  into  her  throat. 
Each  blow  of  it  was  physical  pain.  She  opened  her  eyes 
and  sat  up  in  bed. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        175 

Her  first  discovery  was  that  the  night  clerk  had  lighted 
the  candle  which  burned  on  the  dressing  table  behind  the 
bed.  Although  the  circumference  of  the  room  was  clear  she 
herself  was  still  in  shadow.  She  looked  into  the  face  before 
her.  She  saw  the  gleam  of  white  teeth  out  of  the  dark 
oval,  and  remembered  those  on  each  side  of  his  mouth  in 
his  upper  jaw,  pointed  like  a  wolf's.  He  had  raised  his 
arm  to  shelter  his  face  from  her  sight,  but  she  cried  out 
stridently : 

"I  see  your  face.     I  know  who  you  are." 

She  attempted  to  rise,  to  rush  to  the  window  with  a  cry 
of  "auxilio  .  .  .  auxilio!"  But  a  weight  held  her  down. 
She  struggled. 

"The  senorita  is  mistaken.  The  senorita  has  not  seen 
me." 

"I  have.  I  have.  You  admitted  us  last  night.  You 
served  supper  to  my  mother  and  me." 

She  attempted  to  wrench  herself  free,  and  then  was 
borne  down  as  it  seemed  to  her  into  the  bed.  Her  head 
was  buried  into  the  pillow.  She  was  breathing  feathers. 
They  stuck  in  her  throat.  Her  temples  were  bursting  with 
a  grinding  pain.  Her  eyes  burned  in  their  sockets.  She 
felt  they  were  being  drawn  out  of  her  skull.  And  the  pain 
at  her  throat  was  intolerable.  Yet  she  could  not  cry  out, 
could  not  move.  Could  only  suffer  .  .  .  suffer  as  she  fell 
.  .  .  for  she  was  falling  through  limitless  space  into  un- 
relieved darkness.  Her  throat  still  burned  but  the  remain- 
ing parts  of  her  were  congealed,  were  turning  slowly  to 
ice  ...  were  ice. 


XX 

DON  PEDRO  stepped  back  from  his  work  trembling.  The 
young  seiiorita  lay  in  a  crumpled  heap  across  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  The  light  of  the  concealed  candle  was  enough 
to  show  the  bruise  on  her  throat,  the  tongue  which  pro- 
tuded  from  the  mouth,  and  her  eyes — Dios  de  mi  Alma! 
They  were  not  good  to  see,  those  eyes ! 

He  leaned  against  the  wall  weak  with  fright.  He  had  not 
intended  killing  the  sefiorita.  Nothing  had  been  further 
from  his  intentions.  She  was  rich  and  he  and  his  Con- 
cepcione  were  poor.  He  had  not  wished  her  any  bodily 
harm,  so  he  assured  himself.  His  thoughts  already  took  the 
form  of  excuse  and  palliative,  yet  he  knew  no  explanation 
of  his  would  curb  the  investigation  of  the  Guardia  Civile. 
And  all  he  had  wanted  was  a  little  money. 

He  had  pulled  off  small  tricks  among  foreigners  before 
and  gone  unscathed.  He  had  wanted  the  ring,  100  or  150 
reales  if  possible  and  the  necklace.  He  would  have  buried 
them  and  months  later  have  converted  them  into  gold  while 
in  Cordoba  in  the  Calle  de  los  Ucedas  or  if  need  be  in  Ma- 
drid. His  discretion  would  have  remained  unimpeached.  But 
he  had  been  frightened.  She  had  evidently  not  touched  the 
aguardiente  for  she  had  wakened  easily  and  seen  his  face. 
He  had  thought  only  of  self-preservation.  Instead  of 
stopping  her  cries  he  had  committed  murder.  .  .  .  He 
damned  himself  for  using  so  much  strength.  He  took  out 
a  handkerchief  and  drew  it  across  a  wet  brow  and  then 
wiped  his  slim  mahogany  hands,  the  long  taper  fingers  that 
could  strangle.  He  had  been  too  zealous  this  time.  He 
had  overdone  his  job. 

He  looked  at  her  where  she  lay,  the  Senorita  Inglesa, 
with  her  terrible  sightless  eyes  convicting  him  of  crime. 
He  realised  she  could  not  be  left  there.  And  yet  murder 

176 


177 

had  been  so  far  in  excess  of  his  plans  that,  for  the  moment, 
he  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

His  first  act  was  to  tear  a  sheet  from  the  bed  and  throw 
it  over  her.  But  the  settling  of  the  folds  about  her  young 
body  revealed  the  corpse  beneath.  The  broken  lines  of 
her  were  as  completely  visible  as  though  the  impress  of 
murder  were  woven  into  the  coarse  cotton.  Don  Pedro 
was  afraid.  It  was  his  only  offence  that  had  been  com- 
mitted with  an  absence  of  strategy  which  would  betray 
him  to  the  duller  wits  of  his  neighbours.  This  was  rapine 
and  butchery.  This  could  not  be  hidden.  The  whole  burrio 
would  know  of  it.  He  crept  downstairs  to  tell  Concepcione. 

A  few  moments  later  Maria  de  la  Concepcione,  or  Concha 
as  she  was  familiarly  called,  fully  dressed,  mounted  the 
stairs  and  entered  number  five.  In  spite  of  a  superstitious 
fear  of  death  she  had  been  given  her  instructions.  It  was 
her  business  to  fulfil  them.  True  the  cards  had  already 
predicted  that  Pedro  would  come  to  an  untimely  end. 
Therefore  since  El  Demonio  had  whispered  to  her  hombre 
a  means  to  conceal  his  infamy,  it  was  not  for  her  to  insist 
lest  she  herself  be  punished  by  the  aojo. 

She  plucked  the  sheet  from  the  body.  If  :he  experienced 
any  protest  or  recoil,  she  at  least  mastered  the  physical 
essentials.  She  dressed  it  in  the  clothes  she  found  upon 
the  chair,  even  to  boots,  hat  and  veil.  Every  object  con- 
nected with  the  young  woman  was  replaced,  the  ring 
upon  her  finger,  the  necklace  about  her  throat.  Though 
she  were  to  be  found  later  on  there  must  be  no  evidence  that 
she  had  been  robbed.  The  candle  flickered,  ends  of  wick 
flaring  fitfully.  The  corpse  propped  into  unnatural  posi- 
tions made  grotesque  shadows  on  the  wall.  Several  times 
Concepcione  crossed  herself  to  avert  evil  and  muttered : 
"Poramor  de  Dios." 

When  the  work  was  completed  the  sweat  had  made  run- 
nels down  her  cheeks.  In  a  struggle  against  fear,  she  felt 
an  equal  trepidation  of  Pedro  with  that  of  the  supernatural. 
The  corpse  clad,  it  was  wrapped  hastily  in  an  old  quilt. 
Concepcione  then  shouldered  the  weight  and  opened  the 


178        SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

door.  There  was  no  one  moving  in  the  passage.  Cautiously 
she  made  the  descent  carrying  her  burden. 

She  entered  the  office  and  pushed  open  the  door  to  the 
kitchen.  She  stood  there  a  moment  listening.  She  tapped 
quietly  on  the  outer  door  which  admitted  to  the  patio. 

While  she  had  discharged  her  duty  above  stairs  Pedro 
had  not  remained  idle.  He  had  drawn  out  the  old  carriage 
into  the  middle  of  the  stone-paved  patio  and  harnessed  the 
asses  to  it.  His  own  harness  was  ornamented  with  jingling 
bells.  In  place  of  this  he  had  substituted  a  crude  patching 
of  cloth  and  esparto  grass.  The  animals,  little  accustomed 
to  being  roused  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  stood  timorously 
together,  their  heads  touching,  their  tails  drawn  between 
their  legs.  Don  Pedro  did  not  curse  them  as  usual.  Mov- 
ing noiselessly  as  a  cat  across  the  tiles  he  emerged  from 
the  straw  loft.  He  placed  the  straw  on  the  bottom  of  the 
carreta.  Upon  this  he  signalled  to  Concepcione  the  body 
was  to  be  deposited. 

Following  his  silent  instructions,  Concha  revisited  the 
upper  room.  She  returned  carrying  the  dressing-bag, 
walking-stick  and  box  of  drawing  materials.  A  pair  of 
slippers  and  a  litter  of  smaller  articles  her  acumen  had 
prompted  her  to  gather  into  a  square  of  bright  cotton,  the 
ends  of  which  were  tied  together  guitana-fashion.  These 
were  placed  beside  the  body  and  over  all  was  laid  a  cover- 
ing of  straw. 

There  remained  nothing  more  to  be  given  attention  before 
starting.  The  animals'  hoofs  had  been  packed  with  mud. 
Don  Pedro  opened  the  door  which  communicated  with 
the  narrow  calle.  Making  certain  that  no  one  loitered  in 
the  thick  darkness  of  the  doorways  across  the  street  he 
spoke  to  his  donkeys.  At  a  whisper  they  moved  forward, 
guided  by  him  as  he  walked  at  their  side  carrying  a  prod. 
Concepcione  went  to  the  door  and  watched  them  as  they  set 
off  down  the  silent  street,  a  strange  death  cortege.  The 
asses'  hoofs  on  the  paving  were  almost  noiseless.  The  only 
sound  was  the  turn  of  the  wooden  wheels  of  the  old  carre- 
ta.,  Murmuring  "Maria  Santisima,  le  guarde,"  she  crossed 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        179 

herself  and  went  within  before  they  had  turned  the  corner. 

Don  Pedro  knew  the  streets  of  Fuente  la  Higuera  as  well 
as  he  knew  the  palm  of  his  own  right  hand.  It  was  there- 
fore a  simple  matter  for  him  to  select  those  streets  wherein 
his  chances  of  observation  were  minimised.  There  were 
only  two  wine-shops  that  remained  open  until  morning.  The 
noise  within  these  was  intense  so  that  it  was  possible  that 
Don  Pedro  might  have  passed  their  lighted  doorways  un- 
remarked. 

He  guided  the  donkeys,  however,  from  the  elbow  of  the 
street  across  the  market  place  where  most  of  the  alleys 
debouched.  This  was  now  deserted,  the  stalls  empty  of 
produce.  From  here  he  made  his  way  down  a  succession 
of  narrow  black  spaces,  over  ruts  and  uneven  pavements. 
Had  Don  Pedro  not  known  the  byways  of  Fuente  la  Hi- 
guera as  well  through  impenetrable  darkness  as  by  light, 
he  could  not  have  guided  the  pair.  But  at  a  corner  the 
donkeys  turned  abruptly  and  a  rear  wheel  went  over  the 
high  curbstone.  The  carreta  pitched  violently.  Then  as 
the  solid  disk  of  the  wheel  was  dashed  against  the  stone 
the  noise  of  it  burst  between  the  narrow  walls  like  a  per- 
cussion. A  voice  behind  a  grated  window  called: 

"Quien  Vive?" 

Don  Pedro  placed  a  hand  on  the  bridle  of  the  near  animal. 
They  had  turned  the  corner  and  now  stood  silent.  He  won- 
dered if  the  asses'  breathing  could  be  heard.  He  waited. 
There  followed  no  further  interrogation.  No  light  flashed 
in  the  alley,  so  they  continued.  They  left  the  town  by  the 
Puerta  del  Norte  and  drove  into  the  open  country. 

Less  than  a  kilometre  from  the  town  was  a  location  which 
had  been  in  recent  use  as  encampment  for  gipsies.  This 
tribe  of  gitanos  was  in  small  favour  in  Fuente  la  Higuera, 
both  on  account  of  theft  and  because  of  the  belief  that  they 
had  brought  a  visitation  of  lice  and  miseria. 

The  only  member  of  the  town  who  had  been  in  com- 
munication with  them  was  the  stranger  known  as  Don 
Rodolfo.  Rodolfo,  a  thief  by  inclination,  was  a  specialised 
sheep-robber  by  profession.  Claiming  to  be  the  friend  of 


i8o       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

the  gitanos  he  proved  himself  their  superior  in  guile.  Fol- 
lowing every  transaction  with  him  they  loosened  horrible 
imprecations  and  cast  their  knives  into  the  ground. 

Don  Pedro  recognised  a  valuable  acquaintance  in  him 
and  offered  shelter  with  the  understanding  that  he  share  in 
his  increment.  One  of  the  fundamentals  of  Don  Rodolfo's 
success  was  his  knowledge  whom  to  cheat  and  whom  not 
to.  He  had  made  a  mistake  once  and  carried  henceforth 
the  mark  of  it  in  the  knife  thrust  which  lifted  one  brow 
and  gave  his  face  a  curiously  inquiring  look.  He  saw  in 
his  host  a  man  of  parts ;  their  relationship  remained  one  of 
scrupulous  integrity. 

The  open  country  across  which  Don  Pedro  travelled  was 
mostly  waste  land  used  for  grazing,  but  following  con- 
tinued draughts  now  worn  barren  as  a  hide.  At  length 
Pedro  ordered  the  asses  to  halt.  Upon  discovering  the 
spot  where  the  gipsy  fires  had  burned  he  made  his  way 
down  the  side  of  the  mountain.  Here  after  investigating 
some  shrubbery  he  pushed  aside  its  branches.  Striking  a 
match  he  found  an  opening  in  the  rocks.  It  was  as  he 
thought.  This  was  the  spot  Don  Rodolfo  had  described 
where  the  gipsies  had  kept  their  stores.  It  was  depleted 
now,  but  would  serve  very  well.  He  allowed  himself  the 
cynical  smile  of  the  man  to  whom  obstacles  are  created 
only  that  he  may  override  them. 

He  returned  to  the  carreta,  carried  the  straw  and 
made  a  bed  of  it  under  the  rocks.  The  body  was  committed 
to  this  rough  pallet.  He  left  the  sefiorita  where  he  had 
thrown  her,  lying  upon  her  back,  her  head  straining  away 
from  her  body  as  though  the  delicate  stem  of  her  throat 
had  been  snapped.  Beside  her  were  those  possessions  which 
his  prudence  had  urged  to  take  from  her  room. 

Don  Pedro  paused  for  a  moment  before  leaving.  He  was 
aware  of  a  feeling  he  could  not  define.  The  fear  of  the 
criminal  who  has  overreached  himself  merging  into  the 
superstition  of  an  imaginative  brain  wherein  anything  is 
possible. 

He  struck  a  match.    Cradling  it  in  his  hands  he  watched 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        181 

it  flare  up  for  a  final  look.  In  the  sulphurous  glow  the 
bruise  on  the  corpse  looked  uglier  than  before.  But  as  he 
watched  his  jaw  fell  open,  and  he  stared  with  congested 
eyes.  The  night  air  was  not  cold,  yet  he  shivered.  He  saw 
that  the  lids  of  the  dead  woman  had  closed  naturally! 

"Valgame  Dios !" 

He  tore  at  her  hand,  gripping  it  between  trembling 
fingers.  He  felt  fumblingly  for  her  heart.  His  match 
burnt  itself  down  to  his  fingers.  When  it  went  out  he  did 
not  feel  its  scorching.  There  followed  an  interminable  wait 
in  the  dark. 

There  was  a  slight  movement  in  her,  as  though  under 
the  ice  the  thaw  had  set  in.  There  seemed  a  special  mes- 
sage for  him  in  the  life  which  answered  his  touch. 

Don  Pedro  felt  for  his  clasp-knife.  Then  as  he  waited 
for  further  signs  the  little  runnel  within  ceased,  and  he 
knew  that  it  was  not  necessary  that  he  slit  her  throat — at 
least  for  the  present.  The  heart's  action,  almost  imper- 
ceptible at  first,  became  weaker.  He  had  nothing  to  fear. 
She  would  be  dead  before  daylight.  He  was  no  longer  her 
murderer.  If  it  so  happened  she  died,  that  was  God's  affair, 
not  his. 

He  decided  to  return  to  the  body  in  twenty-four  hours, 
or  sooner  if  he  could  do  so  without  detection.  There  were 
difficulties  ahead  which  would  require  the  use  of  all  his 
craftiness.  If  by  any  chance  there  was  still  life  left  in  her 
upon  his  return  she  must  be  done  to  death.  But  he  was 
enough  of  a  craven  not  to  wish  to  kill  her  twice.  The  corpse 
would  then  be  buried,  and  whatever  she  possessed  of  value 
would  be  hidden  in  the  ground  in  some  spot  easy  of  access 
to  him.  These  articles  could  be  retrieved  after  the  seno- 
rita's  disappearance  had  ceased  to  agitate  people,  two  years 
later,  three  or  four  .  .  .  whichever  was  required. 

So  reasoning,  Don  Pedro's  first  anxieties  over,  he  re- 
traced his  steps  to  the  roadway  and  drove  his  asses  back  into 
the  town.  As  he  drew  near  the  posada  he  sniffed  the  air. 
A  rancid  whiff  of  burnt  cloth  and  leather,  materials  not 
intended  to  be  fired,  outraged  his  nostrils.  The  stench  be- 


1 82       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

came  stronger  as  he  reached  his  street.  At  his  own  door 
he  gave  the  signal.  It  opened  and  he  passed  in,  following 
his  asses  and  the  carreta. 

In  the  middle  of  the  patio  were  heaped  a  quantity  of 
charred  ends  where  a  strong  fire  had  been  burning,  and 
had  transformed  all  the  furnishings  of  number  five  into 
ashes. 

"Have  you  burnt  everything?" 

"Todo  .  .  .  todo,"  was  Concha's  terse  reply. 

She  led  him  once  more  upstairs.  What  had  once  been  the 
chamber  of  death  was  now  an  empty  room.  Don  Pedro's 
labours  were  not  yet  over.  On  the  floor  stood  a  broken 
cask  filled  with  whitewash  which  Concepcione  had  slacked. 
A  brush  awaited  his  hand  to  blot  out  the  last  identification. 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  later  the  fuchsia  and  love  birds 
had  given  place  to  walls  of  grey-white  blanks.  A  trans- 
version  had  been  accomplished  which  betrayed  no  secrets. 
Don  Rodolfo,  then  roused,  was  established  with  his  effects 
in  the  deserted  room. 

This  done  the  posadero  went  below  stairs.  Ill  accustomed 
to  work,  he  undressed  and  threw  himself  upon  a  tumbled 
bed.  When  the  dawn  came  over  the  housetops  of  Fuente  la 
Higuera,  fatigue  and  oppressed  nerves  had  already  de- 
coyed him  into  heavy  sleep. 


XXI 

HELENA  felt  her  spirit  toiling  back  to  her  body  from 
illimitable  space.  Consciousness  was  withdrawing  her  thou- 
sand veils  and  through  them  sensation  was  attempting  to 
penetrate. 

She  was  aware  only  of  exhaustion  of  mind  and  body. 
She  lay  without  attempting  to  turn,  regretful  at  waking. 
With  her  eyes  closed  she  realised  she  was  in  the  dark.  Ex- 
tending one  hand  she  touched  a  wall  of  rock.  Of  a  sudden 
her  mental  processes  were  shocked  into  instant  reason. 
She  opened  her  eyes  but  the  unfathomable  darkness  did  not 
give  way. 

She  thought  to  rise.  She  told  herself  she  should  attempt 
some  escape,  but  the  clearness  of  her  mind  was  already 
waning.  Films  of  oblivion  were  shutting  down  upon 
her.  ...  A  velvet  darkness  that  suffocated,  had  her  by  the 
throat  and  she  was  once  more  adrift.  .  .  . 

Miss  Cass  realised  that  it  was  hours  later  that  her  weak- 
ness passed.  With  a  competency  almost  unimpaired  her 
mind  was  able  to  explore  her  condition.  An  exhaustion  that 
bound  her  hand  and  foot  prohibited  any  movement.  She 
was  no  longer  in  her  room  at  the  posada.  She  remembered 
Don  Pedro's  visit  to  her  as  something  which  had  occurred 
aeons  before.  He  had  robbed  her  and  attempted  to  strangle 
her,  but  in  the  latter  effort  he  had  not  been  entirely  suc- 
cessful. Where  had  he  taken  her?  She  thought  of  her 
mother.  She  had  little  hope  that  Mrs.  Cass  could  find  her. 

She  remembered  that  she  had  not  written  her  letter  to 
Jordan  Buel.  He  had  no  means  of  knowing  to  what  hill 
town  she  had  betaken  herself.  Her  mother  had  always  re- 
mained uninformed  as  to  his  address,  and  he  was  the  last 
person  she  would  turn  to  for  assistance.  Mrs.  Cass  knew 
no  Spanish,  could  not  even  make  herself  understood.  Was 

182 


1 84       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

she  to  die  then  because  the  means  of  adequate  search  was 
denied  her?  She  thought  of  Mr.  Buel  waiting  in  Paris 
after  receiving  her  last  letter.  How  long  would  he  endure 
the  suspense  ?  He  was  not  a  patient  man.  She  thanked  God 
for  that.  But  could  she  live  until  he  went  to  Madrid  and 
engaged  detectives  there  to  follow  his  unaccountable  fiancee 
whose  silence  had  suddenly  become  ominous. 

Why  shouldn't  she  cease  writing?  Might  he  not  at- 
tribute it  to  reserve  or  a  perversion  of  coquetry?  Sup- 
pose he  were  to  fancy  she  was  deliberately  annoying  him 
and  so  remain  in  Paris  until  she  saw  fit  to  continue  writ- 
ing? Suppose  he  who  was  unimaginative  should  attach  no 
further  importance  to  her  act  than  that  she  was  travel- 
ling and  hard  pressed  for  time?  Why  not?  What  could 
happen  to  her?  Was  she  not  with  her  mother?  What 
reason  had  he  to  be  apprehensive? 

Under  the  protection  of  rocks  she  turned  and  re-turned 
on  her  bed  of  straw,  knowing  there  was  scant  chance  of 
her  recovery.  She  had  been  carried  to  that  spot  only  to  be 
out  the  way.  She  knew  that  just  so  long  as  she  remained 
alive  was  she  a  menace  to  Don  Pedro.  She  wondered  if 
someone  would  return  to  transport  her  to  some  more  dis- 
tant hiding,  or  to  have  her  put  away  and  her  body  buried. 

She  attempted  to  rouse  herself  from  the  torpor  which 
she  recognised  was  germinating  sleep  or  loss  of  conscious- 
ness. But  the  effort  was  too  great.  She  was  letting  go, 
when  suddenly  her  faculties  sprang  to  instant  life. 

She  heard  a  step  on  the  loose  flints  near  by.  The  shrub- 
beries at  the  entrance  were  thrust  aside.  An  adumbra- 
tion poised  a  moment  between  her  and  the  light.  There 
was  a  pause.  Then  a  scraping  of  a  match  upon  the  rock 
and  Don  Pedro  was  leaning  over  her. 

Her  closed  eyes  did  not  deceive  him.  Although  the  face 
was  waxen  in  its  pallor  by  match  light,  the  lips  were  not  dis- 
coloured. The  nails  of  her  hand  which  lay  by  her  side  had 
not  paled.  And  as  Don  Pedro  watched  he  detected  her 
breathing. 

Miss  Cass  knew  by  the  oath  which  escaped  his  lips  that 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       185 

she  was  unsuccessful  in  her  effort  to  counterfeit  death. 
And  with  this  discovery  both  body  and  brain  were  sur- 
rendered to  terror.  The  pain  at  her  throat  where  he  had 
mishandled  her  now  burned  like  a  cautery.  The  very  tissue 
of  her  felt  loosened  from  the  bone. 

He  had  come  back!  She  had  known  he  would  do  this! 
But  she  had  not  expected  him  so  soon!  Perhaps  he  had 
been  gone  longer  than  she  thought.  Why  hadn't  he  killed 
her  outright?  She  made  a  monumental  effort  to  hold  her 
breath  and  failed. 

He  remained  for  a  moment  kneeling  before  her,  the  rock 
above  not  allowing  him  to  stand.  The  quality  of  his  lan- 
guage as  he  watched,  was  not  reproduceable.  Then  he  left 
abruptly. 

She  heard  the  brushwood  torn  aside.  She  opened  her 
eyes  in  the  dark.  He  had  gone.  But  having  found  her 
alive,  why  had  he  left  her?  And  then  something  of  the 
malignancy  of  his  plan  suggested  itself  to  her  imagination. 

She  turned  on  her  side,  struggled  to  her  knees  and 
crawled  toward  the  mouth  of  the  cavern.  She  was  forced 
to  feel  her  way.  Although  her  eyes  were  long  accustomed 
to  the  dark,  the  overshelving  rocks  were  low,  almost  to  ob- 
scuring the  entrance.  Reaching  the  shrubberies  she  paused. 
There  was  no  sound  nearby.  She  parted  them  and  looked 
out. 

The  hillside  was  saturated  in  moonlight.  Above  the  sky 
quivered  like  a  blue  flame.  The  radiance  thrown  over  the 
uneventful  landscape  before  her  was  such  that  a  small  ob- 
ject was  discernable,  even  at  a  distance.  Miss  Cass  realised 
at  once  that  all  thought  of  escape  was  foredoomed  to  failure. 
And  with  this  discovery  she  felt  at  once  weaker.  In  her 
condition  she  could  only  drag  herself  a  few  feet.  But  the 
hillside  provided  no  shelter.  There  were  no  folds  in  the 
slope  where  she  could  remain  under  cover.  Nor  was  there 
oak  or  olive  or  carrasco  which  clothed  the  more  precipitous 
inclines  approaching  Fuente  la  Higuera.  For  a  distance 
on  all  sides  stretched  exposure,  where  she  would  perforce 
make  a  ready  target  for  Don  Pedro  on  his  return. 


1 86       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

She  continued  to  look  about  her  in  despair.  She  knew 
the  futility  of  any  effort  in  attempting  to  thwart  him  in 
whatever  his  purposes.  She  forced  herself  through  the 
shrubbery  and  managed  to  rise  to  her  feet.  As  she  did  so 
her  efforts  sent  a  runnel  of  loosened  stones  careering  down 
the  hillside.  She  drew  back,  clinging  to  the  rock  in 
fright.  The  stones  turned  over  and  over  and  at  length 
were  caught  below.  She  was  paralysed  by  the  sound.  Her 
face  in  the  moonlight  was  a  mere  wedge  of  white  with 
distended  eyes.  With  the  last  stone  silenced  she  moved 
again,  venturing  a  step  or  two  from  the  rock  entrance. 

Some  distance  above  lay  the  road.  And  from  where 
Miss  Cass  stood  she  could  hear  the  diminishing  sound  of 
wheels  of  Don  Pedro's  carreta  being  driven  away.  In  that 
moment  she  apprehended  his  intentions.  He  did  not  wish 
to  leave  the  carreta  in  plain  view  near  the  point  of  the 
murder  on  the  contingency  of  passers-by.  Even  at  that 
hour  it  was  conceivable  that  a  chance  arriero  or  travelling 
merchant  might  be  approaching  the  town.  Wishing  a  lift 
what  more  likely  than  that  he  should  attempt  to  find  the 
driver,  and  so  discover  Don  Pedro  in  the  rocks  and  become 
informed  of  his  business  there. 

He  lighted  his  cigarette  and  drove  half  a  kilometre  up 
the  road.  Don  Pedro  walked  behind  the  leisurely  moving 
animals,  prodding  them  from  time  to  time  in  the  rump  with 
his  stick.  Reaching  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road  he  drove  them 
down  the  embankment  into  a  small  and  mutilated  wood  of 
cork  and  azinneiras  trees.  In  the  moonlight  the  shadows 
of  these  almost  verdureless  branches  offered  scant  pro- 
tection against  an  alert  eye.  However,  it  was  the  best 
shelter  that  the  roadway  offered.  And  the  work  which  lay 
before  him  was  not  one  which  would  require  a  great  length 
of  time. 

Killing  the  Senorita  Inglesa  was  not  altogether  a  man's 
job,  since  she  was  now  like  a  lifeless  bird  and  already  in 
his  hand.  The  real  problem  was  to  bury  her,  but  for  this 
he  had  come  prepared.  He  removed  a  heavy  spade  from 
the  carreta,  obliterated  all  mark  of  the  wheels  for  some 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       187 

distance  back  and  then  went  on  his  way.  He  took  the 
precaution  to  walk  on  the  grass,  dry  and  close-crovped 
from  incessant  grazing. 

When  he  reached  the  cave  he  decided  to  light  a  candle. 
The  young  woman  was  unarmed  and  even  though  conscious 
was  no  match  for  him.  He  would  place  one  hand  over 
her  mouth  and  with  his  navaja  make  a  swift  gash  in  her 
throat.  He  would  tie  her  arms  together  and  her  limbs  and 
drag  her  to  the  entrance.  Then  he  would  dig  a  shallow 
grave  and  place  her  in  it  beneath  the  rocks  where  he  could 
roll  one  of  those  above  over  the  spot  so  that  the  scar  in 
the  hillside  would  remain  concealed. 

As  he  reached  the  place  he  climbed  down  the  rock.  His 
movements  were  agile  though  unhurried.  He  drew  aside 
the  brushwood  and  inserted  himself  within  the  low  opening. 
Don  Pedro's  body  was  as  supple  as  a  ribbon.  There  he 
lighted  his  candle,  unsheathed  his  navaja  and  looked  about 
him. 

His  surprise  was  so  great  at  finding  the  cavern  unin- 
habited that  at  first  he  thought  a  miracle  had  been  com- 
passed. Then  his  more  practical  judgment  abjured  any  such 
belief.  She  had  escaped.  In  that  case  she  could  not  be 
far  away.  She  had  had  no  water  since  he  had  brought  her 
there  and  was  still  very  weak.  Don  Pedro  darted  out  into 
the  moonlight  and  stood  scanning  the  hillside.  He  saw  a 
shadow  not  far  off  as  if  something  crouching  on  the  ground. 
With  a  stiff  smile  curving  his  lips  he  made  toward  it. 

Miss  Cass  had  realised  that  any  effort  at  escape  must 
be  put  into  immediate  execution.  And  so  upon  emerging 
from  the  cave  she  had  set  off  down  the  hillside.  Her  prog- 
ress was  slow.  She  felt  that  whatever  chance  she  had  de- 
pended upon  her  keeping  the  contagion  of  fear  in  her  brain 
from  spreading  to  her  limbs.  But  fear  had  crippled  her 
until  her  knees  were  unable  to  answer  her  commands.  She 
staggered  as  though  on  wooden  legs.  She  was  like  some 
drunken  thing  set  in  motion  and  now  moving  from  its  own 
momentum.  She  knew  it  was  weakness  more  than  fright. 


188       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

And  without  knowing  it  she  prayed  that  her  strength  would 
not  desert  her  until  she  made  cover. 

The  spot  was  still  a  long  distance  off,  and  even  when 
reached  would  offer  only  temporary  safety.  It  consisted 
of  a  group  of  thistles,  so  sparsely  grown  that  one  could 
see  between  them,  but  which,  nevertheless,  cast  a  lean 
shadow.  Once  or  twice  she  stopped  long  enough  to  look 
back.  Don  Pedro  had  not  returned.  He  had  remained 
away  a  longer  period  than  she  had  expected.  And  yet  it 
seemed  to  her  only  a  matter  of  seconds  since  the  distance 
which  separated  her  from  the  rocks  was  still  inconsider- 
able. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  a  curtain  of  black  came  before 
her.  She  knew  that  weakness  had  conquered.  She  sank  to 
the  ground.  She  could  no  longer  see  a  foot  before  her.  She 
attempted  to  crawl  away  on  her  knees  but  the  effort  was 
too  great.  She  was  aware  of  a  whirling  darkness  behind 
her  eyes.  She  could  see  a  mad  circling  of  motes,  glittering 
like  powdered  steel.  Then  she  was  sunk  in  a  warm  hush. 

After  a  moment  the  wave  of  weakness  passed.  But  the 
return  came  too  late.  She  remembered  where  she  was,  her 
plight  and,  turning,  looked  back. 

Don  Pedro  was  making  his  way  nimbly  over  the  face  of 
the  rocks  and  disappeared  through  the  opening.  Intent 
upon  his  business  he  had  not  seen  her.  Yet  she  remained 
in  complete  view.  In  an  instant  he  would  be  out  of  the 
cave,  would  discover  her  and  be  in  full  pursuit.  She 
staggered  to  her  feet.  There  was  no  use  to  look  back  now. 
She  must  run  even  though  he  saw  her.  Even  though  he 
overtook  her  she  would  still  be  running  when  felled  to  the 
ground. 

Her  breath  was  sobbing.  She  was  conscious  of  a  func- 
tioning hitherto  unknown.  Something  rose  and  fell.  As 
it  rose  it  seemed  her  heart  turned  over  within  her.  And  as 
it  fell  a  gag  was  removed  from  her  throat. 

The  thistles  were  now  close  at  hand.  If  she  could  only 
reach  them  in  safety.  Two  or  three  steps  more.  .  .  .  She 
threw  herself  down  upon  the  ground  in  their  shadow.  Be- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       189 

tween  their  stems  she  had  a  view  of  the  distance  just 
traversed. 

Don  Pedro  was  standing  in  front  of  the  rock  entrance. 
He  was  facing  her.  She  wondered  how  long  he  had  been 
there.  Had  he  seen  her  run  to  cover?  She  was  not  left 
long  in  doubt.  Still  carrying  the  prod  with  which  he  urged 
on  his  animals  he  came  toward  her  moving  with  speed. 

Two  rocks  lay  in  his  path.  In  the  past  they  had  been 
used  by  the  gipsies  to  build  a  fire  between  them.  The  inter- 
space was  insufficient  for  a  person  to  crawl  into,  but  Don 
Pedro  stopped  to  prod  this  shadow,  then  came  on. 

The  suspense  she  was  suffering  was  intolerable.  She 
thought  for  a  moment  to  pull  herself  up  and  face  him.  In- 
stant death  was  preferable  to  this  waiting  for  an  end  which 
at  best  could  be  equivocated  only  a  minute  or  more.  And 
then  it  occurred  to  her  it  might  not  be  immediate  death. 
There  might  be  carnal  requirements  wrung  from  her  first, 
and  she  remained  where  she  was  lying  flat  upon  the  grass, 
attempting  to  efface  herself  still  further.  Her  heart  seemed 
to  be  under  the  ground,  beating  up  against  her  body.  The 
thud  of  it  she  felt  was  enough  to  shatter  the  universe.  Her 
face  was  concealed,  her  features  pressed  into  the  dust. 
Each  breath  drew  the  odor  of  dried  earth  into  her  nostrils. 

She  waited.  She  could  see  nothing.  But  she  heard 
his  step  draw  closer. 

Within  her  thoughts  were  clamouring.  Her  brain  shelt- 
ered incoherent  sound  like  a  shell.  .  .  .  Would  her  re- 
mains ever  be  found  ?  Would  the  truth  come  to  light  ?  A 
puerile  fear  of  revealed  religion  invaded  her.  Was  this  the 
eternal  reckoning? 

The  footsteps  had  stopped.  He  was  standing  over  her 
now.  How  long  must  she  retain  that  position  while  he 
amused  himself  at  her  expense?  Why  did  he  not  bury  his 
knife  between  her  shoulders? 

She  dared  not  look  up.  Seconds  passed.  Her  most  poig- 
nant feeling  became  one  of  exhaustion.  A  red  ant  crawled 
on  her  face  but  she  did  not  brush  it  off.  She  must  move ! 
.  She  decided  to  count  a  hundred  first. 


1 9o       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Gradually  she  lifted  her  head. 

She  was  alone.  She  looked  about  her.  Don  Pedro  was 
nowhere  in  sight.  She  had  compressed  herself  into  in- 
credibly small  space.  He  had  drawn  near,  concluded  she 
could  not  be  there,  and  continued  his  search  in  another  di- 
rection. But  not  knowing  where  he  had  gone  she  felt  afraid 
to  make  good  her  escape. 

At  length  she  concluded  he  had  crossed  the  road  above, 
or  else  gone  toward  the  cork  wood  which  she  could  see 
far  away  to  her  left.  This  decided  her  to  continue  down 
the  incline  although  she  knew  there  was  the  chance  that 
she  might  be  following  him  whichever  direction  she  pursued. 
She  continued  slowly,  step  by  step,  each  moment  her 
amazement  increasing  at  her  miraculous  release.  The  hill- 
side became  more  oblique.  Below  she  sighted  a  road. 

She  made  toward  it  now,  hurrying  as  best  she  could. 
Nettles  tore  at  her  clothes  and  twice  she  fell.  She  rose 
shaken  and  cut,  but  at  such  times  her  only  thought  was 
of  the  noise.  Any  injury  she  might  do  herself  was  uncon- 
sidered.  Reaching  the  embankment  which  ran  along  the 
side  of  the  road,  she  hesitated.  There  were  no  shadows  in 
which  it  seemed  credible  anyone  could  be  hiding.  Belo\% 
her  was  a  ditch  which  followed  the  road,  intended  to  carry 
water  but  now  covered  with  hardened  mud  and  broken 
with  gaping  fissures.  Miss  Cass  lowered  herself  into  the 
ditch  and  then  was  at  a  loss  to  know  what  movement  to 
make  next.  It  was  a  game  of  chess,  only  the  pawn  was 
life.  She  wondered  where  the  road  led.  There  was  no 
sign  of  any  hamlet  or  lights  as  far  as  she  could  see.  Could 
it  be  that  this  was  only  a  lower  loop  of  the  upper  road  by 
which  Don  Pedro  had  travelled. 

She  was  afraid  to  continue  along  it  in  either  direction. 
Don  Pedro  would  extend  his  desperate  search.  Finding  that 
she  was  not  above  he  would  make  his  way  to  this  lower 
level.  According  to  which  reasoning  there  seemed  less 
peril  in  remaining  where  she  was.  She  had  little  idea  of 
time.  She  looked  up  at  the  disk  of  the  moon,  seemingly 
immovable  and  the  colour  of  honey.  She  calculated  there 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       191 

were  yet  three  hours  before  it  set.  Three  hours  of  undi- 
minished  light. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  ditch,  at  first  cow- 
ering. And  then  as  time  passed  her  fears  diminished 
somewhat  and  she  relaxed,  leaning  against  the  embankment 
behind  her. 

Not  far  away  she  could  hear  the  chirp  of  a  solitary  cricket. 
She  was  caught  in  a  surge  of  recollections  by  the  familiar 
sound.  She  remembered  the  cricket  orchestra  which  she, 
with  other  undergraduates,  had  often  heard  on  summer 
evenings  in  Poughkeepsie  within  the  grounds  of  Vassar. 
And  she  was  the  same  girl  now  waiting  for  her  encounter, 
on  a  deserted  country  road  in  the  Sierra  Morena.  The 
hiatus  that  separated  her  from  past  days  could  never  be 
bridged. 

A  half  hour  passed.  .  .  . 

And  then  suddenly  she  was  aware  of  sound.  At  first 
unable  to  analyse  it  she  thought  the  ringing  was  in  her 
ears.  And  then  she  knew  it  was  the  jingle  of  bells  down 
the  road.  It  was  still  at  a  distance.  She  crouched  in  the 
shadow  and  waited.  It  was  rapidly  approaching  like  a 
single  motive  of  some  great  orchestration. 

Then  a  turn  in  the  road  revealed  a  pair  of  mules  with 
collars  of  bells.  They  were  harnessed  to  a  cart  with  a 
canvas  covering,  the  whole  enveloped  in  a  moving  cloud 
of  dust.  A  quantity  of  impulses  tore  at  her  for  domination. 
She  thought  to  declare  herself  and  ask  to  be  taken  to  the 
nearest  town.  And  then  she  knew  the  danger  of  her  appeal. 
She  was  in  that  part  of  Sierra  Morena  where  the  traffic 
of  the  bandolero  received  its  yearly  toll,  and  she  felt  an 
instant  reaction  of  all  thought  except  an  overwhelming  in- 
flux of  fear. 

The  sound  of  the  bells  became  louder.  Veils  of  dust  ap- 
proached her  in  which  she  was  shrouded.  The  mules  were 
abreast  of  her,  passing,  when  a  sudden  inextinguishable  hope 
of  escape  assailed  her.  As  the  cart  swept  by  she  sprang 
into  the  road.  The  dust  was  strangling.  The  mules'  pace 
now  even,  but  her  determination  was  not  easily  thwarted. 


i92       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Whatever  the  risk,  if  she  failed  now  she  was  without  hope. 
She  managed  to  grip  hold  of  the  end  of  the  cart.  She  at- 
tempted to  pull  herself  up  onto  it.  She  lost  her  footing. 
But  she  did  not  let  go,  and  then  slowly,  painfully,  drew 
herself  up. 

They  were  going  faster  now.  She  sat  panting  under  the 
canvas  covering.  The  carretero,  with  his  face  muffled  in  his 
shawl,  was  all  unmindful  of  his  fellow  traveller.  But  the 
interior  of  the  cart  held  another  occupant.  On  the  husks 
which  covered  it  lay  a  heifer  roped  to  the  side. 

She  crawled  in  further,  covering  herself  as  best  she 
could  with  husks.  Then  she  lay  down.  The  bad  going 
made  itself  felt  in  a  violent  pitching,  but  she  lay  silent  with 
open  eyes  as  they  continued  their  rapid  descent. 


XXII 

SEFTON  remained  silent  for  several  minutes  after  Don 
Rodolfo  ceased  talking.  He  had  been  busily  putting  to- 
gether those  portions  of  the  fellow's  story  which  he  believed 
and  supplementing  them  by  what  his  own  sense  of  reality 
projected.  Any  inaccuracies  of  hypothesis  meant  the  loss 
of  this  one  chance  of  finding  her,  and  accordingly  he  wor- 
ried that  every  premise  remained  reasonable. 

Without  the  cantino  the  dusk  approached.  Before  the 
windows  the  ghostly  eucalyptus  continued  its  unbroken 
whispering,  turning  its  leaves,  now  grey,  now  mauve,  now 
vivid  green.  Within  the  room  the  cloth  on  the  table  before 
them  was  crumpled,  spread  with  particles  of  bread  and 
spotted  with  wine  where  Don  Rodolfo's  hand  shook  in 
making  the  journey  to  his  lips.  His  lids  drooped  heavily. 
Even  that  portion  of  his  brown  body  showing  through  his 
rent  shirt  was  distended.  A  complete  satiety  had  descended 
upon  him  in  which  his  words  lost  much  of  their  fire  and 
his  mind  its  alertness.  He  continued  sensuously  to  smoke, 
his  eyes  glittering  occasionally  as  they  unsealed  themselves 
through  a  haze  of  cigarette  fumes. 

"How  do  you  know  the  Senorita  entered  the  wagon?" 
Sefton  asked  abruptly. 

Don  Rodolfo  looked  at  him  with  reproach. 

"My  brother,  have  I  not  thought  of  her  disappearance  a 
thousand  times  myself!  Mary  most  pure!  The  young 
woman  could  not  have  hidden  in  a  rat-hole,  could  she? 
There  was  no  hut,  no  place  where  she  could  seek  shelter. 
Don  Pedro  searched  the  rest  of  the  night  .  .  .  and  I  most 
of  the  next  day." 

"And  you  never  found  any  trace  of  her?" 

Don  Rodolfo  shook  his  head.  His  eyes  blazed  mo- 
mentarily in  emphatic  denial. 


i94       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"None." 

"What  is  your  explanation  of  what  happened  to  her? 
Do  you  think  she  is  alive  now  ?" 

"I  have  often  asked  myself  that  same  question,  Senor. 
God  of  my  soul,  where  can  she  be?  It  is  three  years  .  .  . 
and  still  no  one  knows." 

That  the  man  could  be  of  no  further  use  that  day  was 
apparent.  Unaccustomed  food  and  wine  had  blanketed  his 
entire  being  in  material  comfort,  from  which  he  was  not  to 
be  routed  by  another's  mental  distress.  His  eyes  were 
closing  in  a  stupor  of  wine.  Nothing  but  Sefton's  placing 
his  hand  in  his  pocketbook  could  recall  them  to  their  sur- 
roundings. This  he  did,  paid  the  fellow  the  sum  agreed 
'to,  and  replied  to  his  courtly  "Adios."  With  the  Spaniard 
gone  he  remained  for  some  time  sunk  in  his  entangled 
thoughts.  Later  his  host  entered  bearing  a  petroleum  lamp 
to  ask  if  he  would  require  anything  more  and  he  paid  his 
bill  and  left. 

Next  day  he  sought  out  Don  Rodolfo  once  more.  He 
had  slept  for  hours  after  his  invigorating  food ;  had  bathed, 
shaved,  and  was  wearing  fresh  linen,  a  new  coat  and  gor- 
rita.  He  looked  amazingly  younger  and  less  sinister.  He 
saluted  the  American  with  his  usual  imperturbability,  and  to 
all  questions  was  not  to  be  dissuaded  from  the  story  of  the 
day  before.  His  account  was  so  metriculously  worded,  so 
artful  a  compound  of  desire  to  assist  Sefton  and  injure  his 
co-conspirator,  that  Sefton  at  length  gave  up  all  thought  of 
upsetting  it. 

This  decision  made,  he  set  out  on  a  journey  of  several 
weeks,  that  carried  him  through  most  of  the  nearby  villages 
he  had  already  visited,  where  he  had  inquired  if  anyone 
had  seen  the  Senorita  Ingle sa  ...  a  beautiful  young 
woman,  with  fair  skin  and  dark  hair,  and  eyes  unlike  those 
of  a  Spaniard,  who  had  been  missing  for  three  years.  .  .  . 
In  the  market-place  the  townsmen  gathered  about  him  and 
the  housewives,  with  live  chickens  under  their  arms,  lis- 
tened to  his  questions.  No  one  had  seen  her. 

He  traveled  slowly,  remaining  long  enough  at  each  stop 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        195 

to  gain  the  confidence  of  cur  a  and  alcalde  of  the  village, 
hoping  with  the  church  and  law  upon  his  side  the  silence 
and  superstition  of  its  people  might  be  lifted.  One  night, 
arriving  late  at  a  town  several  kilometres  distant,  he  made 
his  wants  known  at  the  small  casa  de  hucspedes,  which  was 
the  only  inn  the  town  possessed. 

He  was  met  at  the  door  by  the  rubicund  proprietor,  a 
bright-eyed  man,  prosperous  looking,  a  well-developed 
paunch  nicely  fitted  into  his  traje  de  fiesta  and  a  heavy  sil- 
ver watch-chain  drawn  tight  across  his  convexity.  Grasp- 
ing Sefton's  hand,  he  announced  his  opportune  arrival, 
since  his  daughter  had  just  that  moment  been  married  and 
they  were  even  then  waiting  to  be  seated  at  table.  Sefton 
refused  courteously  to  join  the  ceremony,  and  after  dining 
alone  was  shown  upstairs  to  the  proprietor's  own  room, 
there  being  no  other  available.  He  lay  in  bed,  unable  to 
sleep,  while  the  dancing  and  merrymaking  continued  down- 
stairs, turning  a  thought  over  and  over  in  his  mind — a 
thought  aroused  by  a  chance  remark  of  the  inn-keeper. 
Had  Miss  Cass  sought  safety  in  a  convent?  His  host 
had  explained  that  the  lights  he  had  noticed  on  the  hilltop 
on  his  approach  to  the  village  were  those  of  a  strict  and 
cloistered  order  of  nuns.  But  Helena  would  not  have  main- 
tained continued  seclusion,  his  common  sense  assured  him, 
and  even  had  she  thought  to  do  so  the  American  detec- 
tives had  not  overlooked  religious  orders. 

The  dancing  kept  up  all  night,  the  music  of  guitars  pluck- 
ing fresh  dissonances,  strange  Moorish  lilts  in  minors  that 
stirred  the  blood.  There  were  shouts  of  approval  and 
hand-clapping  as  an  accompaniment  to  the  castanets,  as 
young  men  and  women  spun  around,  while  inequalities  of 
the  floor  quivered  to  the  contact  and  the  stamp  of  their 
heels.  There  was  light  in  the  sky  before  their  enthusiasm 
was  extinguished. 

As  he  lay  open-eyed  in  the  inn-keeper's  room  he  realised 
he  could  not  enter  the  convent  or  speak  with  the  sisters. 
He  learnt  next  day  that  the  order  was  a  strict  one,  given 
to  contemplation  and  fasts.  But,  not  being  a  detective  with 


196       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

a  warrant  from  the  comisario  de  policia,  nor  a  dig- 
nitary of  the  Church,  he  could  not  obtain  admission.  Dur- 
ing the  afternoon  he  thought  to  ask  the  inn-keeper  if  there 
was  any  man  connected  with  the  order.  He  learned  to  his 
great  interest  that  they  employed  a  gardener  who  did  the 
heavy  labour,  a  simple-witted  fellow,  who  lived  in  a  hut  at 
the  edge  of  the  garden,  preparing  his  own  meals,  but  com- 
ing to  the  village  once  a  month  to  make  purchases  for  the 
community.  It  was  agreed  that  upon  the  fellow's  next  trip 
Sefton  should  be  summoned. 

It  was  ten  days  later  that  this  opportunity  offered.  Sef- 
ton did  not  see  the  man  at  first,  when  his  attention  was 
called  to  him  in  crossing  the  paseo  on  which  the  fonda 
gave.  The  man  matched  the  hillside  as  completely  as  a 
grasshopper.  He  was  wearing  the  sandals  sometimes  seen 
on  the  agriculturalists  and  swine-herds  of  the  country,  and 
clothes  that  had  lost  all  distinguishing  colour  in  perpetual 
exposure,  with  a  drab  mania  thrown  over  one  shoulder. 
He  had  brought  to  the  village  those  commodities  which  the 
convent  yielded  and  had  made  such  exchanges  as  were  re- 
quired, had  stored  his  provisions  in  the  small  taranta  with 
which  he  would  return  up  the  hill  at  sundown. 

The  inn-keeper  called  to  him  with  his  unfailing  geniality, 
but,  receiving  no  answer,  placed  his  hand  heavily  on  the 
man's  shoulder  as  he  passed.  Summoning  him  peremptorily 
to  a  grape-arbour  at  the  rear  of  the  fonda,  the  poor  crea- 
ture followed  obediently,  as  though  accustomed  to  have  his 
own  inclinations  overruled.  Here,  as  they  seated  them- 
selves before  the  table,  Sefton,  at  a  sign  from  his  host, 
ordered  wine  to  loosen  the  mute  tongue  of  their  victim. 
After  he  had  tasted  his  glass  of  home-brewed  wine,  Sefton 
asked  his  first  question: 

Had  he  seen  a  foreign  girl  ...  at  the  convent  .  .  .  three 
years  ago. 

The  man  gave  immediate  denial.  But  the  innkeeper 
urged  patience,  as  he  moved  with  disrelish  at  this  form  of 
witless  amusement.  After  the  second  glass  Sefton  repeated 
his  question,  and  this  time  obtained  no  answer  at  all.  His 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       197 

good-natured  host  smiled  encouragingly.  What  cloistral 
information  could  be  extracted  from  a  man  who  scarcely 
knew  his  own  name,  who  obeyed  only  certain  routine  direc- 
tions, as  a  dog  will  his  master? 

The  rustic  scrutinised  him  for  a  moment,  a  functionless 
brain  watching  him  out  of  dark-umber  eyes,  so  shallow  that 
Sefton's  thoughts  struck  bottom  in  them.  He  felt  a  mo- 
ment's irritation  that  his  hopes  had  been  allowed  to  build 
on  the  information  of  this  clod.  But,  after  several  delibera- 
tive moments,  the  simple  creature  scratched  his  head,  and, 
putting  all  perplexities  aside,  began  to  talk.  Much  that  he 
said  was  unintelligible  to  the  novelist.  Having  spoken  lit- 
tle in  years  the  timbre  of  his  voice  had  changed  like  that 
of  a  deaf  person.  And  a  partial  vacuity  seemed  to  have 
accomplished  what  his  hermit  life  had  left  undone. 

The  man  was  obviously  old,  in  spite  of  a  child-like  ex- 
pression, with  a  tanned,  beardless  face,  not  unlike  an  old 
woman's.  Many  of  his  words  were  unknown  except  to 
the  native,  but  out  of  what  the  dull-witted  fellow  told  there 
grew  a  revelation  which  held  his  listener  breathless. 


XXIII 

Miss  CASS  was  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  whom  she  had  not 
seen,  but  nothing  which  lay  before  her  could  equal  the  hor- 
ror from  which  she  had  escaped.  The  canvas  hood  cover- 
ing the  top  of  the  cart  was  drawn  down  between  her  and 
the  carretero.  She  could  only  judge  the  temper  of  the  man 
by  the  continuous  anda,  anda,  andaah  with  which  he  urged 
on  his  mules  to  greater  speed. 

Once,  hearing  something  moving  at  her  side,  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  the  heifer  plaintively  licked  her  fingers 
with  its  rough  tongue.  She  derived  a  curious  comfort 
from  the  caress  and  animal  warmth.  Her  greatest  need 
was  for  water.  Her  lips  were  parched  from  the  want  of 
it,  her  throat  suffocated.  This  desire  became  the  one 
thought  which  agitated  her,  beyond  which  her  mind  was 
lulled  into  total  inefficacy. 

Through  the  night  she  lay,  scarcely  moving,  her  eyes 
watching  the  round  opening  in  the  canvas  at  the  rear  of 
the  jolting  cart.  She  could  see  a  circle  of  rocking  skies, 
where  the  constellations  burned  and  then  were  shaken  out 
of  sight  ~by  a  turn  in  the  road.  The  immensities  of  space 
between  them  oppressed  her.  The  indigo  vault  against 
which  they  were  displayed  grew  fainter.  A  mist  of  star 
dust  came  between  her  and  the  heavens. 

Miss  Cass  did  not  know  if  she  had  been  asleep  or  if  ex- 
haustion drumming  in  her  ears  had  claimed  her  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  surface  consciousness.  Her  lids  fell  wide 
apart.  She  was  still  in  the  cart,  but  through  the  opening 
in  the  canvas  she  saw  the  stars  had  gone  and  without  was 
darkness.  And  then  she  realised  they  were  no  longer  in 
motion.  They  had  stopped  on  the  roadside.  There  was 
no  sign  of  any  village  discoverable  out  of  the  uniform 
gloom. 

198 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       199 

This  was  as  good  an  opportunity  as  any  that  was  likely 
to  arise  for  her  r/3  leave  the  cart.  She  rose  to  her  knees 
throwing  off  the  husks.  Any  movement  was  now  audible 
in  the  surrounding  stillness.  At  that  moment  the  carretero, 
who  had  already  seen  to  his  mules,  came  to  the  opening  in 
the  canvas  and  stood  there  holding  an  earthen  jar  filled 
with  water.  Miss  Cass  cowered  where  she  was.  She  saw 
only  a  muffled  silhouette  that  extended  the  jar  to  the 
heifer,  roped  by  her  side.  The  animal  struggled  to  its 
knees  and  sucked  audibly  while  switching  its  tail.  When 
the  carretero  decided  roughly  that  it  had  had  enough  he 
removed  the  jar,  climbed  back  to  his  seat  and  with  a  shrill- 
ing astdj  asta  mula,  they  were  off. 

In  the  darkness  through  which  they  were  now  whirling 
she  noticed  the  carretero 's  blows  became  more  frequent.  He 
exhorted  the  sluggish  mules  with  an  explosive  vocabulary 
to  speed,  but  all  his  eloquence  was  failing  of  effect.  She 
calculated  roughly  that  she  had  travelled  over  four  hours 
and  in  case  she  had  slept  perhaps  longer.  In  less  than  an 
hour  it  would  be  light.  She  would  leave  the  cart  before 
then,  depending  on  a  moment  when  exhaustion  had  farther 
diminished  the  animals'  gait. 

And  so  half  an  hour  later  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
cart  waiting  for  the  propitious  moment  in  which  to  swing 
herself  off.  She  decided  she  was  miles  from  any  habita- 
tion. The  country  composed  of  steep  hills  and  an  occa- 
sional vega  was  not  unfriendly.  At  length  they  came  in 
sight  of  fields  of  stubble  where  the  grain  had  been  harvested 
and  she  knew  she  was  near  a  hamlet.  The  mules'  pace 
was  now  slow.  She  lowered  her  feet  gradually  to  the 
road,  ran  along  with  the  cart  for  a  few  paces  and  then  let 

go- 
She  was  free.  But  with  a  freedom  which  she  had  not 
the  strength  to  put  to  any  purpose.  On  her  left  the  road 
fell  away  to  a  depth  in  which  the  light  was  insufficient  to 
explore.  On  her  right  rose  an  embankment  above  which 
she  could  see  fields  of  hay  cultivated  on  a  hillside.  She 
climbed  the  embankment  and,  finding  a  hayrick,  made  her 


200       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

way  toward  it.  Here  she  arranged  a  luxurious  bed,  shel- 
tered from  the  east,  and  lay  there  in  a  semi-somnolence, 
never  completely  oblivious  to  her  surroundings,  nor  yet 
thoroughly  wakeful. 

Struggling  through  the  torpor  came  a  succession  of  lance- 
like  pains,  the  demands  of  her  body  for  food  and  refresh- 
ment. She  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  the  sun  wheeling  over- 
head. It  was  drawing  the  heat  from  the  bleaching  fields. 
And  the  fragrance  of  cut  hay,  which  at  another  time  would 
have  delighted  her,  now  overpowered.  Its  sweetness  was 
choking.  The  breaths  she  drew  savoured  of  scents  that 
nauseated  in  her  weakness. 

Later  in  the  day  she  became  aware  of  sounds  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hayrick.  At  first  she  thought  it  was  a 
human  being  moving  near  at  hand,  and  then  as  she  listened 
acutely  she  heard  the  periodical  pulling  at  the  loosened 
hay  and  knew  it  was  an  animal.  She  crept  forward  several 
feet  until  she  sighted  a  goat  with  black  and  white  pelt, 
feeding  at  its  leisure.  At  a  distance  she  could  see  the  rest 
of  the  herd  from  which  this  one  had  strayed.  As  she 
watched  the  animal  turned,  stood  motionless  without  re- 
volving its  mouthful,  watching  her  with  lambent  yellow 
eyes.  She  spoke  to  it  gently  but  it  did  not  move.  Then  con- 
cluding she  was  harmless  it  continued  its  cropping. 

Miss  Cass  had  noticed  its  swollen  udder,  and  a  feeling 
of  desperation  told  her  this  might  be  her  only  opportunity 
of  nourishment.  She  crept  toward  it  on  her  knees  until  she 
could  stroke  its  hide.  The  goat  shook  its  head  as  though 
ill-accustomed  to  such  effeminacies  and  she  placed  her 
hands  inexpertly  against  the  teats.  Very  gently  she  pressed 
them.  A  needle  of  milk  shivered  out.  She  repeated  this 
process  with  indifferent  success,  the  goat  seemingly  sur- 
veying her  efforts  with  a  mixture  of  patience  and  disgust. 
Then  she  lowered  her  head  under  its  body  and  rained  flashes 
of  milk  into  her  parched  throat.  The  udder  was  still  far 
from  depleted  when  the  goat,  tiring  of  her  efforts,  made 
off  and  rejoined  the  herd. 

She  watched  them  from  where  she  lay.    Somewhere  over 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       201 

the  hill,  she  knew,  must  be  the  hut  of  a  peasant  farmer. 
Darkness  she  realised  would  be  upon  her  within  a  couple 
of  hours.  Therefore,  if  she  were  to  reach  shelter  before 
nightfall,  she  could  not  postpone  her  attempt  any  longer. 
And  so  she  set  out,  moving  only  a  short  distance  at  a  time, 
and  then  sinking  down  to  rest  until  her  heart  quieted  itself 
and  the  glowing  penumbra  which  came  between  her  and 
the  light  vaporised  and  was  gone. 

The  sun  had  set  and  dusk  was  proceeding  out  of  the  folds 
of  the  surrounding  country  to  meet  the  darkness  in  the  sky 
when  Miss  Cass  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Below  her 
stretched  a  small,  deserted  vega  and  at  its  extremity  rose 
another  hill.  While  she  remained  irresolute  what  to  do 
she  saw  the  goat  herder  with  his  herd.  She  thought  to  cry 
out  and  gain  his  attention.  Country  people  who  lived  near 
to  the  soil  were  always  good-hearted,  she  reminded  herself, 
with  reviving  faith  in  mankind.  Any  possible  distrust 
which  she  might  have  felt  in  him  was  lessened  as  she  saw 
him  reach  the  summit  of  the  hill  beyond.  In  a  moment  he 
would  disappear  and  she  would  be  alone. 

She  attempted  to  call  but  the  muscles  of  her  throat  con- 
tracted. She  could  not  liberate  her  voice.  It  was  impris- 
oned deep  down  within  her.  After  prodigious  striving  she 
raised  a  cry,  but  the  result  was  a  mere  thread  of  sound. 
Her  eyes  never  left  the  herder,  but  he  continued  on  his 
way.  She  waved  a  small  square  of  lawn  above  her  head 
and  called  several  times.  But  he  did  not  turn  and  a  moment 
later  had  begun  the  descent  and  was  lost  to  view. 

There  was  now  no  choice  but  for  her  to  explore  the  vega. 
She  continued  until  the  darkness  made  further  progress  im- 
possible. In  the  tangle  of  brushwood  she  prepared  herself 
a  rough  bed  and  lay  down.  At  first  the  intense  discom- 
fiture withheld  all  thought  of  sleep,  then  a  distorted  fear,  and 
then  hunger.  But  at  length  exhaustion  overcame  them  all 
and  she  was  lost.  She  awakened  twice  during  the  night 
startled  by  noises  near  at  hand  which  proved  to  be  the  sound 
of  prowling  nature.  She  lay  without  moving,  looking  up 
at  the  stars.  For  moments  she  wondered  if  her  fear  was 


202       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

of  mankind  or  the  supernatural.  She  seemed  utterly  alone 
and  yet  face  to  face  with  God.  No  matter  how  she  cowered 
it  seemed  to  her  she  was  visible.  The  aloneness  beneath 
those  immensities  was  crushing. 

Later  when  she  awakened  coldness  was  the  only  sensa- 
tion. She  felt  chilled  to  the  bone,  her  muscles  stiff,  her 
hair  wet.  Her  head  ached  and  she  was  too  weak  to  rouse 
herself  to  her  misery. 

She  opened  her  eyes.  It  was  early  morning  and  she  was 
lying  on  a  hillside  grown  with  furze,  wild  fennel  and 
brushwood.  As  she  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  she  could 
see  no  sign  of  human  habitation.  She  could  hear  small 
staitled  sounds  in  the  fennel  about  her,  and  diminutive 
scamperings  which  she  supposed  were  field  mice.  Her 
hands  were  soiled  with  broken  nails;  her  clothes  smeared 
with  moisture  and  filth.  The  hazards  of  past  hours  de- 
voured her  to  the  exclusion  of  her  present  needs.  She  lay 
still  for  some  time  and  then  realising  that  she  could  not  re- 
main where  she  was,  she  exerted  her  will  to  rise.  As  she 
did  so  she  noticed  beyond  the  wilderness  of  brushwood 
which  separated  her,  the  profile  of  a  building  at  a  great 
height  which  stood  against  the  morning  sky.  It  was  built 
of  stone  and  of  considerable  size  though  dwarfed  by  dis- 
tance and  weathered  until  it  had  lost  its  salient  colours  ex- 
cept for  a  tiled  roof  and  long  green  shutters.  The  building 
was  surrounded  by  a  high  wall  on  two  sides,  its  own  outer 
wall  forming  a  part  of  the  enclosure  on  the  third.  She  could 
see  that  a  road,  rough,  little  used  with  deep  ruts  cut  in  the 
hillside,  made  its  way  there.  Miss  Cass  decided  after  a 
moment  of  indecision  to  attempt  to  gain  its  refuge.  She 
was  aware  of  a  warning  of  incipient  illness,  nauseous,  insis- 
tent, which  called  for  immediate  rest. 

It  was  a  labourious  ascent,  and  several  times  she  wavered 
in  her  purpose  and  sat  down,  doubting  if  her  strength  would 
hold  out.  The  building  rose  above  chestnuts,  oaks  and 
plane  trees,  and  the  surrounding  country  possessed  none  of 
the  more  haggard  aspects  which  she  associated  with  the 
Spanish  compaiia.  Her  brain  clamouring  to  know  where 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       203 

she  was,  wondered  if  she  had  been  transported  a  great 
distance.  Below  her  ran  the  road  by  which  she  had  trav- 
elled, although  in  which  direction  she  was  she  could  not 
surmise.  Then  she  rose  once  more. 

She  knew  she  had  done  well  in  selecting  this  building 
in  the  hope  of  relief,  instead  of  trusting  to  the  charity 
of  any  chance  traveller  on  the  highroad.  As  she  drew 
nearer  she  noted  its  cleanliness  and  order.  The  green  door 
and  scoured  stone  step  before  it ;  where  there  was  cleanli- 
ness, she  argued,  there  was  intelligence,  and  intelligence  and 
kindliness  she  believed  were  never  far  apart.  She  swayed, 
gripped  hold  of  a  young  sapling  whilst  the  hillside  moved 
in  strange  convolutions  and  she  could  find  no  stationary 
ground  on  which  to  place  her  foot.  Her  vexation  increased 
at  what  she  knew  to  be  only  weakness.  She  waited  for  it 
to  pass  and  then  proceeded. 

The  wall  of  the  building  was  pierced  by  several  windows 
looking  toward  the  East,  but  most  of  them,  she  surmised, 
gave  upon  a  garden.  The  tops  of  orange  and  citron  trees 
rose  above  the  wall  and  she  had  a  glimpse  of  grape  vines 
and  creepers  trained  on  parr  as  and  a  cultivation  of  waU- 
fruit. 

A  feeling  of  excitement  now  mastered  her.  She  recog- 
nised that  only  a  few  minutes  of  consciousness  were  left. 
No  one  had  watched  her  toiling  progress  up  to  these  heights 
to  whom  she  could  now  signal  in  distress.  There  was  prob- 
able help  if  she  could  reach  the  green  door  before  being 
overcome.  The  struggle  brought  a  cold  sweat  to  her  brow. 
Her  breathing  was  animal ;  respiratory  poundings  were  suf- 
focating. The  green  door  had  seemed  very  near  for  almost 
five  minutes  and  still  it  eluded  her. 

Waves  of  faintness  broke  against  Miss  Cass.  Her  nails 
were  dug  into  the  palms  of  her  grimy  hands.  She  sank  to 
her  knees  crawling  the  last  steps.  The  door  was  before 
her.  She  remained  a  tumbled  heap,  waiting  for  reviving 
strength  so  that  she  might  reach  the  bell.  It  was  her  last 
struggle.  As  though  in  answer  to  a  prayer  her  hand  caught 
it,  pulled  vigorously  and  then  let  go. 


XXIV 

THERE  were  moments  of  awful  doubt  before  Helena 
heard  steps.  Then  the  green  door  was  unbolted,  a  key 
thrust  into  the  lock,  and  it  opened. 

The  portress  of  the  convent,  a  large,  shapeless  woman, 
middle-aged,  with  weak  eyes  which  squinted  through  steel 
spectacles,  stood  on  the  lintel  regarding  Miss  Cass  with 
amazement. 

"As  you  love  God,"  Helena  said,  "have  mercy  on  me." 

But  the  words  were  spoken  in  English,  and  her  mind, 
lost  in  enveloping  faintness,  was  unable  to  prompt  any 
words  the  portress  could  understand.  She  had  made  her 
struggle,  but  further  lucidity  was  denied  her,  and,  as  she 
faced  the  spectacled  eyes,  her  effort  to  recall  some  word  of 
Spanish  that  would  explain  her  predicament  was  defeated. 
Her  knees  went  out  from  under  her  and  she  slipped  at 
the  portress's  feet,  like  a  bundle  of  old  clothes,  into  a  pro- 
found unconsciousness.  The  stranger  was  carried  to  the 
infirmary,  and  placed  under  the  care  of  the  infirmarian,  a 
sister  not  totally  without  experience. 

The  infirmary  was  a  large  hexagonal  room  with  five  long 
windows  giving  onto  the  well-ordered  convent  garden.  On 
her  pallet-bed  the  distressed  young  woman  lay,  watched 
alternately  by  the  superior  of  the  convent,  the  novice  mis- 
tress and  the  infirmarian.  The  portress  was  instructed  to 
give  no  information  concerning  the  stranger  to  the  other 
sisters,  for  the  prioress,  who  was  herself  stern,  incurious 
and  inflexible,  did  not  wish  that  any  good  act  within  the 
order  should  be  turned  to  speculation  and  curiosity. 

But  although  each  of  the  three  inspected  the  patient,  who 
watched  them  with  open,  staring  eyes,  Miss  Cass  knew  them 
not,  and  her  speech  was  always  in  a  foreign  tongue.  The 
infirmarian,  Sister  Celestina,  moved  about  her  bed  in  felt 

204 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       205 

slippers,  and,  although  a  large  and  powerfully  built  woman, 
her  step  was  silence  itself.  The  windows  were  kept  open 
that  the  thyme-scented  air  might  cool  the  feverish  face. 

After  several  days  had  passed  and  the  patient's  tempera- 
ture remained  high,  Sister  Celestina  suggested  that  medical 
aid  be  called,  but  the  prioress,  after  another  examination, 
concluded  this  unnecessary.  That  the  young  woman  was 
very  ill  she  saw,  but  she  believed  in  her  recovery  and  or- 
dered that  prayers  be  said  in  her  behalf. 

Miss  Cass,  hanging  between  life  and  death,  cried  aloud 
wildly  that  she  was  being  pursued,  torn  from  her  room  and 
was  to  be  buried  alive.  During  the  hour  of  meditation  her 
voice  rang  out,  convulsed,  strangled,  a  cry  of  such  chilling 
terror  that  the  good  sisters  shivered  at  prayer. 

"Don't  let  him  bury  me!  Don't  let  him  bury  me!"  she 
cried.  "I'm  alive  !  I'm  still  alive." 

She  would  grasp  Sister  Celestina's  arm  with  force  and 
try  to  be  lifted  from  her  bed  which  she  fancied  was  her 
grave  closing  in  on  her.  And  then  worn  down  to  exhaustion 
the  fluttering  heart  would  quiet  itself  and  she  would  slip 
once  more  into  oblivion. 

Later  she  would  be  roused  to  speak  quietly. 

"I  know  it's  wrong,"  she  would  say,  "but  my  secret  will 
be  safe  when  the  train  has  passed  over  me.  I'll  be  safe 
with  God."  And  she  would  smile. 

"Let  no  one  fear  God  who  does  not  fear  the  world." 

And  there  were  long  conversations  in  which  Sister  Celes- 
tina was  called  "Jordan."  At  such  times  she  told  him  that 
she  loved  him  but  begged  him  to  go  away.  And  at  others, 
she  would  declare  that  she  would  endure  it.  With  a  brow 
beaded  with  sweat  and  fever-dilated  eyes,  she  would  sit  up 
in  bed  and  defy  the  crowd  to  stone  her  to  death  and  her 
father  to  deny  her  his  house.  .  .  . 

The  basin  of  soup  that  was  brought  to  her  she  drank 
greedily.  And  following  her  violence  came  days  of  coma 
in  which  Sister  Celestina  became  more  apprehensive.  But 
at  length  the  fever  lifted  and  for  weeks  her  time  was  de- 
voted to  long  restful  hours  of  sleep,  after  which  she  wak- 


206       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

ened  to  a  benumbed  condition  which  was  not  yet  conscious- 
ness, but  its  borderland. 

At  such  times  Sister  Celestina  sat  by  the  bedside  busy 
with  her  lace-making  when  her  strong  lean  fingers  were 
not  feeling  the  polished  wooden  beads  and  silver  cross 
of  her  rosary.  The  convent  had  many  years  before  shelt- 
ered a  prioress  who  had  entertained  a  vision,  and  this 
saint  had  lived  in  a  part  of  the  convent  most  of  which  had 
been  restored,  and  from  which  new  wings  had  been  thrown 
out.  The  old  rooms,  however,  had  been  retained  where  pos- 
sible and  were  known  as  the  Santa  Casa ;  the  infirmary  was 
a  new  wing  which  abutted  them  and  had  little  connection 
with  the  rest  of  the  building. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  Ascension  and  the  mass  for  its 
celebrating  was  being  said  in  the  chapel.  Sister  Celestina 
was  occupied  at  her  devotions  alone  with  her  patient  when 
Miss  Cass  moved  suddenly  and  sat  up  in  bed. 

"Where  am  I  ?"  she  asked  in  Spanish. 

"This  is  the  Order  of  the  Sisters  of  the  Adoration."  * 

Miss  Cass  remained  silent  a  moment,  attempting  to  piece 
together  a  number  of  divergent  recollections.  Then  she 
exclaimed : 

"I  was  able  to  reach  the  bell?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  green  door  was  opened?" 

"Yes,  and  you  were  carried  in  here." 

"Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Sister  Celestina,  the  infirmarian.  I  don't  think  you 
had  better  ask  any  more  questions." 

"But  I  must.     How  long  have  I  been  here?" 

"Several  weeks." 

"But  why  have  the  leaves  all  fallen  in  the  garden?" 

"This  is  winter." 

"Winter !" 

Helena  pronounced  the  word  blankly,  without  meaning. 

Sister  Celestina   returned  to  the  bedside  with   a  fresh 

*  The  writer   substitutes  "The   Sisters   of  the  Adoration  in  place 
of  the  correct  name  of  this  order. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        207 

bowl  of  soup  and  insisted  upon  feeding  her.  Each  time 
her  lips  formed  a  question  a  spoonful  of  hot  soup  silenced 
them  and  the  determined  sister  signalised  an  intention  to 
ignore  further  colloquy. 

A  thought  cataclysmal  in  its  results  had  formed  in  her 
brain  while  the  placid  sister  continued  to  press  spoonfuls 
of  hot  liquid  upon  her.  She  swallowed  them  merely  because 
it  was  simpler  than  arguing  that  she  did  not  want  it. 

"May  I  see  a  mirror?"  she  at  length  requested. 

"There  are  none  here." 

"No  mirrors  ?" 

"No." 

"But  one's  hair?" 

"That's  very  simply  cared  for,"  the  sister  said  with  a 
happy  smile,  as  though  it  were  the  greatest  joke  in  the 
world.  "And  the  scapular  covers  it." 

"You  haven't  cut  mine  off  ?" 

Helena's  hands  flew  to  her  head  in  terror  and  she  grasped 
her  thick  coil  with  reassurance.  She  had  considered  her 
heavy  black  hair  her  one  claim  to  beauty. 

"Do  I  look  very  badly,  Sister  Celestina?  Be  honest,  tell 
me  just  how  I  look." 

"You're  very  pale." 

"But  am  I  a  fright  ?" 

"You  have  been  ill.  That  anyone  can  see.  But  you  will 
have  a  complete  recovery." 

"I'm  a  fright.     I  knew  it." 

She  turned  her  head  petulantly  toward  the  wall  and  the 
thought  of  her  recovery  no  longer  filled  her  with  hope.  She 
longed  to  see  Jordan  and  yet,  great  as  she  felt  her  need  for 
him,  she  could  not  risk  seeing  the  expression  of  his  eyes 
change  and  be  aware  of  his  discomposure.  He  was  a  man 
and  the  masculine  mind  would  not  be  expected  to  penetrate 
far  below  the  envelope.  It  would  be  useless,  she  felt,  to 
affirm  that  she  was  the  same  person  he  had  loved  if  her 
identity  had  forsaken  the  rounded  cheek  and  clear  eye. 
And  if  Jordan  ceased  to  love  her,  what  then  ? 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  world  whose  affection 


208        SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

would  never  waver,  with  whom  there  could  be  no  breach. 
She  would  wire  for  her  mother  first  and  later,  when  she 
felt  equal  to  making  the  effort,  she  would  send  for  Mr. 
Buel  and  see  if  her  ill-conditioned  appearance  was  sufficient 
to  alienate  his  love.  But  for  the  present  she  had  not  the 
strength  and  inclination  to  face  the  ordeal.  Much  as  she 
loved  him  she  was  afraid.  Life  lay  before  her  and  she 
must  play  her  cards  wisely. 

She  was  lying  with  the  sheet  and  coverlet  drawn  up  to 
her  chin  when  she  shuddered  as  the  shock  of  her  condi- 
tion smote  her.  Her  secret  was  apparent  now,  she  realised, 
as  she  lay  with  terror-stricken  eyes  and  parted  lips. 

Here  in  the  orderly  life  of  the  convent  the  good  sister 
who  succoured  her  knew.  The  prioress  knew.  Her  crimin- 
ality was  exposed  to  the  casual  eye.  During  the  months  of 
her  illness  the  dread  had  convicted  her,  and  now  she  was  a 
creature  of  contamination,  retained,  cared  for  as  a  proof  of 
Christian  piety.  She  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the  dis- 
figurement of  her  approaching  motherhood.  She  lay  silent, 
thinking.  This  last  discovery  was  her  undoing.  And  she 
had  thought  the  moment  before  of  the  comfort  which  her 
mother  could  extend.  She  was  denied  that.  She  must  re- 
main there  alone,  in  hiding,  a  pariah  alike  to  these  holy 
women  within  and  to  the  secular  mind  without. 

Her  brain  travelled  wearily  back  over  the  horror  of  the 
days  when  she  had  her  first  intimation  in  Madrid.  Even 
while  she  carried  the  hidden  dread  with  her  day  and  night, 
she  knew  it  was  without  substance.  Then  gradually  had 
come  the  awful  confirmation,  even  while  she  attempted  to 
deny  to  herself  the  evidence  which  was  already  corrobo- 
rated. Those  weeks  resolved  themselves  into  a  long  night- 
mare of  heat,  dust  and  unrelieved  movement.  They  were 
vivid  and  yet  unreal,  like  the  suffering  of  a  patient  under- 
going ether.  She  remembered  her  mother's  insistent  desire 
to  visit  galleries  and  dissect  Goyas.  But  art  had  no  mean- 
ing to  her  then.  Of  the  crowds  they  passed  and  repassed 
in  the  Parque  de  Madrid,  when  as  occasionally  she  saw  a 
woman  facing  her  parenthood  walking  slowly  between  rela- 


209 

tives  she  wondered  how  she  dared  reveal  her  culpability. 

She  had  broken  away  from  Mrs.  Cass  whenever  occa- 
sion permitted  for  long  purposeful  walks.  But  each  day 
she  asked  herself  how  long  would  it  be  possible  for  her  to 
continue  her  life  casually,  undetected  and  without  resource. 
What  was  to  become  of  her?  Should  she  kill  herself? 
What  instrumentality  could  free  her  from  her  position  .  .  . 
There  were  certain  mileposts  in  her  life,  certain  fundamen- 
tals which  must  not  be  uprooted.  The  first  was  that  her 
mother  must  never  know.  Beyond  that  her  plans  lost 
themselves  in  a  welter  of  inconclusion. 

On  these  days  of  undiminished  heat,  when  her  thoughts 
far  outstripped  her  lagging  gait,  a  consecution  of  ugly  plans 
kept  pace  with  her.  Her  position  was  untenable.  No  ex- 
planation of  a  state  of  feeling  could  excuse  a  young  woman 
for  the  absence  of  "niceness."  And  it  was  that  of  which 
she  stood  convicted.  She  did  not  blink  the  facts.  She  was 
not  "nice." 

But  if  she  killed  herself  would  she  put  a  successful  end 
to  her  situation?  She  knew  she  was  caught.  And  she 
knew  death  was  the  only  way  out.  But  even  while  she 
planned  her  extinction  she  realised  that  it  raised  other  diffi- 
culties. Her  death  must  bear  none  of  the  outward  signs 
of  suicide  or  it  would  defeat  its  own  end.  It  must  appear 
unpremeditated,  accidental.  Nor  was  it  merely  to  convince 
a  world  of  curiosity  seekers,  since  it  must  convince  her  own 
mother  as  well.  And  following  Mrs.  Cass's  arrival  on  the 
Continent  she  knew  she  had  been  under  the  closest  observa- 
tion. It  made  the  suppression  of  her  moods  the  more  diffi- 
cult. It  taxed  her  powers  of  dissimulation  to  compare 
Velasquez  and  Carrenos  with  her  mother  whilst  all  the  time 
her  mind  was  groping  for  the  means  of  self-destruction. 
She  decided  at  length  to  appear  to  be  overcome  by  heat  and 
fall  from  the  platform  in  front  of  an  oncoming  train. 

When  this  plan  was  abandoned  it  was  not  because  of 
cowardice  but  because  she  realised  the  extent  of  her 
mother's  love.  Her  loss  would  be  a  greater  affliction  than  she 
had  the  right  to  visit  upon  Mrs.  Cass  and  Annis.  Which 


210       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

meant  that  all  her  craftiness  must  be  quickened  to  some 
greater  ingenuity. 

A  feeling  of  nausea,  mental  as  well  as  physical,  haunted 
her  thoughts.  For  food  she  had  already  acquired  a  dis- 
taste. Sleep  had  deserted  her.  The  mere  thought  of  it 
had  become  a  mirage.  She  longed  for  sleep  as  a  man  lost 
in  the  desert  longs  for  water.  It  taunted  her  at  night 
when  her  nerves  were  whipped  to  an  even  greater  activity 
than  during  the  day.  She  attempted  to  drug  herself  with 
the  books  her  mother  read,  which  only  filled  her  with  irri- 
tation. They  were  unreal.  There  was  not  one  moment  of 
life  in  their  unrelaxed  decorum  which  bore  a  resemblance 
to  anything  living.  .  .  . 

Days  were  passing! 

What  was  she  to  do? 

Her  feelings  vacillated  between  panic  and  despair.  Life 
had  ceased  to  be  an  optional  matter.  The  havoc  her  condi- 
tion had  wrought  had  now  brought  her  down  to  the  depth? 
of  self-devastation.  She  was  terror-stricken.  She  was  out 
on  her  own.  There  was  no  responsibility  that  could  be 
shifted,  no  condonernent  which  could  heal. 

She  despised  herself.  She  was  loose.  A  creature  with- 
out moral  fibre,  lacking  the  strength  to  face  her  own  cor- 
ruption. Her  hatred  was  directed  against  the  distorted  and 
ill-regulated  self  she  had  once  respected.  She  hated  the 
spiritual  self  that  had  crumpled  up  and  the  physical  self 
that  was  weak  and  in  constant  tumult.  And  she  hated  the 
odorous  world  of  heat  and  noise  and  persistent  flies  from 
which  she  was  able  to  grasp  only  moments  of  broken  sleep. 

And  then,  when  her  despondency  was  at  its  lowest  level, 
the  delicate  equilibrium  of  her  brain,  which  under  pressure 
had  lost  its  poise,  now  found  its  own  adjustment.  The 
cowardliness  of  her  intended  act  came  flooding  back  to  her, 
as  she  lay  on  her  bed  in  her  suite  at  the  de  la  Paz  in  Ma- 
drid. After  all  the  law  she  had  transgressed  was  one  of 
man's  and  not  one  of  nature's.  Her  love  for  Buel  was  a 
sacred  and  holy  thing,  not  something  that  required  suicide 
or  the  connivance  of  the  criminally  inclined.  Her  love  and 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       211 

Jordan's  was  enduring,  and  if  in  her  violence  he  had  been 
absent  from  her  thoughts  it  was  merely  because  desperation 
was  of  a  necessity  a  personal  matter. 

This  awakening  of  an  obligation  of  self  stiffened  her 
determination  to  remain  true  to  her  act.  If  necessity  de- 
manded that  she  face  the  opprobrium  of  the  world  unaided 
she  decided  she  had  the  courage  to  do  it.  And  with  this 
resolution  following  her  disrupted  days,  there  came  grad- 
ual peace,  physical  as  well  as  mental. 

And  so  from  Madrid  she  had  written  Jordan  of  her 
secret.  He  should  overtake  them,  and,  Gibraltar  being 
British  soil,  they  would  be  married  there,  in  spite  of  her 
mother's  objections  and«without  revealing  the  reasons  for 
its  compulsion.  In  the  meantime  no  plan  could  be  more  apt 
than  that  which  carried  her  and  Mrs.  Cass  to  Fuente  la 
Higuera.  The  sketching  and  out-of-door  life  would  re- 
store the  lustre  to  her  eyes,  bring  her  sleep,  and,  living  in 
amity  with  the  universe,  would  keep  her  thoughts  from 
centering  upon  herself.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  moun- 
tain town  proved  uninhabitable,  they  would  move  on  to 
Cordoba  and  send  for  Buel  there.  In  any  case,  it  was 
wisest  not  to  tell  him  their  destination  until  Fuente  la 
Higuera  had  been  investigated.  .  .  . 

Lying  there,  she  thought  of  these  plans  and  projects, 
the  constant  renovation  which  her  brain  had  attempted  in 
the  past  all  brought  to  nothing.  .  .  . 

In  the  convent  she  thought  of  the  plans,  and  the  micro- 
scopic tragedy  of  existence  compressed  into  that  fortnight 
of  misery.  The  tireless  constructions  of  her  brain,  plan- 
ning exigencies  each  night  and  all  for  what  ?  .  .  .  Nothing 
could  legitimatise  her  act  now.  She  was  clear-visioned 
enough  to  realise  that  she  could  never  see  her  father 
again.  .  .  .  Her  fever,  which  had  begun  to  abate,  re- 
turned. .  .  . 

The  next  day,  however,  the  prioress  sent  word  that  if 
the  patient  could  write  to  parents  or  friends  of  her  where- 
abouts that  she  would  see  it  was  taken  to  the  nearest  village 
and  sent.  Miss  Cass  understood  this  covert  allusion  to  her 


212       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

removal  by  those  responsible  for  her,  now  that  her  health 
was  on  the  mend.  It  left  her  no  alternative  but  informing 
her  mother.  She  deliberated  some  time  and  then  decided  to 
send  it  to  Morgan,  Harjes  et  Cie.,  in  the  Boulevard  Hauss- 
mann,  who  were  her  mother's  bankers. 

Her  letter  was  a  brief  statement  to  which  the  prioress 
appended  the  address  of  the  convent  with  instructions  how 
to  reach  it.  This  was  despatched  by  the  gardener. 

Once  the  letter  was  on  its  way  and  there  was  no  chance 
of  recalling  it,  Miss  Cass  regretted  her  hastiness.  She  had 
once  felt  that  under  no  conditions  could  she  apprise  her 
mother  of  the  truth.  But  now  that  she  was  about  to  do  so 
she  realised  the  enormity  of  her  conduct.  To  Mrs.  Cass, 
upright,  unflinching,  following  fifty  years  of  undeviating 
morality,  there  could  be  no  explaining  a  laxity  that  appeared 
monstrous  and  perverse. 

Her  time  was  given  over  to  equal  parts  of  anticipation 
and  worry.  She  wondered  if  her  mother  had  relinquished 
the  search  and  returned  to  America,  but  decided  it  was  not 
among  the  probabilities  while  she  remained  unfound.  She 
called  for  a  time-table  of  trains,  which  the  good  sisters  could 
not  supply.  She  realised  that  if  her  mother  was  in  Paris 
and  the  letter  was  delivered  to  her  on  the  afternoon  two 
days  later,  she  would  leave  by  the  night  train.  In  that  case 
Mrs.  Cass  would  be  due  within  twenty-four  hours  provided 
a  train  arrived  according  to  schedule. 

Miss  Cass  slept  little  that  second  night.  She  lay  silent 
in  the  dark  with  open  eyes.  The  total  absence  of  light  in 
the  infirmary  could  not  conceal  to  her  her  own  distended 
outline.  It  was  a  realisation  from  which,  even  for  the  frac- 
tion of  a  minute,  there  was  no  escape.  She  lay  waiting  for 
the  first  peal  of  the  bell  which  would  galvanize  the  sister- 
hood and  send  them  about  their  diurnal  duties.  She 
watched  the  light  of  the  heavens  against  the  frame  of 
windows  turn  lighter,  lighter.  .  .  . 

When  her  questions  during  the  day  became  too  insistent 
the  Reverend  Mother  came  and  sat  beside  her  bed.  She 
explained  that  it  was  impossible  to  expect  any  letters  to 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       213 

be  delivered  with  such  promptness  as  Miss  Cass  had  evi- 
dently expected.  But  Helena  thought  vexatiously  that  if 
the  train  was  on  time  her  mother  must  be  approaching 
Madrid.  The  half  hour  devoted  to  eating  was  lost  be- 
cause Sister  Celestina  persisted  in  talking  and  she  forgot 
the  time  and  was  unable  to  keep  Mrs.  Cass  in  her  relative 
place  on  her  journey.  She  wished  Sister  Celestina  would 
not  try  so  desperately  to  cheer  her.  She  felt  she  could  not 
endure  her  continuous  optimism  much  longer.  Why  was  the 
good  creature's  mouth  perpetually  ajar? 

The  wintry  sunlight  in  the  garden  vanished.  The  dusk 
had  begun  to  extinguish  all  light.  Miss  Cass's  worries  in- 
creased. She  wondered  if  the  superior's  direction  had  been 
explicit  so  that  her  mother  could  not  go  astray.  And  were 
there  always  conveyances  at  the  village  by  which  one  could 
be  conducted  at  any  hour  to  the  Convent  of  the  Adoration  ? 
She  wished  Sister  Celestina  to  go  to  the  window  which 
gave  on  the  vega  below.  From  that  vantage  point  in  the 
Santa  Casa  one  could  see  the  road  for  several  kilometres 
and  tell  if  there  was  any  vehicle  in  sight. 

The  infirmarian  returned  in  a  few  moments  only  to  shake 
her  head. 

"You  cannot  hear  from  your  mother,"  she  said,  "in  less 
than  several  days,  perhaps  a  week  at  the  earliest.  And  the 
chances  are  it  will  be  longer.  You  are  working  up  a  fever 
with  this  excitement  which  will  only  prolong  your  recovery. 
Now  put  the  thought  out  of  your  mind  and  have  your  sup- 
per." 

The  night  that  settled  about  the  convent  was  tense,  im- 
ponderable. Its  density  was  not  broken  by  a  single  light 
beyond  the  convent  walls.  Helena  ate  her  meal  obediently 
and  with  humbleness.  And  when  vespers  sounded  her  lips 
moved  in  prayer. 

It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  that  she  heard  the 
Reverend  Mother's  step  in  the  passage.  She  sat  up  swiftly, 
her  eyes  questioning,  her  hands  locked  together.  In  the 
candlelight  the  Prioress  looked  at  her  startled,  for  in  her 
expectancy  her  face  seemed  curiously  exalted.  In  mat- 


214       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

ters  of  religion  the  young  woman  might  be  sceptical  but  of 
the  human  relationship  she  seemed  to  possess  unbounded 
faith. 

"I  wish  you  to  remain  quite  quiet,  my  daughter.  There  is 
no  call  for  any  excitement.  There  is  someone  here  who  re- 
ceived your  letter  and  has  come  in  answer  to  it." 

She  took  a  step  back  into  the  darkened  passage  and 
beckoned  to  a  wraith.  Helena  saw  a  secular  outline  of 
hat,  veil  and  furs  framed  in  the  doorway. 


XXV 

"On,  my  dear,  my  dear!  .  .  ."  was  all  that  Mrs.  Cass 
could  exclaim,  as  they  continued  locked  in  each  other's  em- 
brace. 

After  the  first  blessed  moment  of  her  nearness  had  been 
spent,  Helena  whispered  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
mother's  bosom: 

"Mumsy  ...  I  knew  .  .  .  you'd  come." 

"Naturally  you  knew  that,  my  dear." 

"But  it's  so  good  to  see  you.  And  there  have  been  times 
when  I  never  supposed  I  would  see  you  again,  or  anyone 
else,  for  the  matter  of  that." 

"We  won't  talk  about  those  times." 

"How  did  you  get  here  so  quickly?" 

"I  took  the  first  train." 

"You  mean  you  were  ready?" 

"Yes.  The  banks  had  closed,  but  I  kept  a  certain  amount 
on  hand  for  an  emergency,  just  in  case  there  was  a  clue  and 
no  time  to  spare." 

"In  your  heart,  don't  you  wish  me  dead  ?" 

"Helena!" 

"It's  all  right.  She  doesn't  understand  a  word  of  Eng- 
lish." 

Miss  Cass  indicated  Sister  Celestina,  who  had  with- 
drawn to  the  end  of  the  long  room  that  their  dialogue 
might  remain  undistured.  The  Prioress's  discretional 
promptings  had  led  her  to  leave  the  infirmary  altogether, 
though  neither  was  aware  of  her  withdrawal. 

In  the  candlelight  Miss  Cass  studied  her  mother's  face. 
Absence  had  sharpened  her  sight,  and  she  saw  the  cheek 
bones  of  the  outline  before  her  were  more  prominent  than 
usual,  the  shadows  beneath  the  bright  eyes  more  tired.  The 
hat  and  furs  she  wore  had  been  purchased  with  that  fine 

215 


216       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

unfailing  ignorance  or  disregard  for  what  became  her. 
There  was  defiance  and  service  in  every  line  of  her  ill- 
fitting  apparel.  Miss  Cass  loved  the  irrelevancy  of  her 
mother's  appearance.  She  was  silent  a  moment  preparing 
herself  for  the  breach,  then  she  said  bluntly: 

"The  one  thing  you  must  realise  about  me,  mother,  you 
have  purposely  ignored.  Say  whatever  you  think.  .  .  . 
Don't  look  at  me  with  pity.  I  want  to  know  if  to  you 
I  am  everlastingly  damned." 

"There's  nothing  to  say,  my  darling.  Only  I  know  you 
have  suffered." 

"And  that's  all?" 

"Yes." 

"And  it  doesn't  make  any  difference?" 

"Not  in  my  love  for  you." 

"Oh,  mumsy." 

"Don't,  dear.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Cass  attempted  to  stem  the  paroxysm  which  shook 
the  occupant  of  the  cot  as  Helena  bowed  her  head  and 
wept. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  wanted  to  kill  myself.  I  intended  to 
rather  than  have  you  know." 

"And  is  that  all  the  faith  you  had  in  mother?" 

"But  you're  so  good  ...  I  thought  you  couldn't  under- 
stand." 

"Goodness  never  kept  anyone  from  understanding.  If 
you'd  only  told  me,  dear.  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  despise  me  utterly?" 

"Let  us  be  practical.  Ask  the  sister  if  I  may  spend  the 
night  here  and  what  preparations  they  can  make  for  me. 
Then  you  must  go  to  sleep  if  you  want  to  see  me  in  the 
morning." 

Miss  Cass  felt  herself  once  more  a  naughty  child  seeking 
solace  at  her  mother's  knee.  Nothing,  seemingly,  could 
rob  this  extraordinary  woman  of  her  fund  of  sympathy 
and  the  infection  of  her  reasonableness  and  common  sense. 
After  the  arrangements  had  been  translated  to  Mrs.  Cass 
and  she  was  led  away  by  Sister  Celestina,  Helena  lay 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       217 

thinking  of  the  past  half  hour  of  rapture.  She  knew  sleep 
was  not  possible  following  such  rewards,  but  a  strange 
quietude  possessed  her,  and  when  she  opened  her  eyes  it 
was  to  see  her  mother  seated  beside  her  breakfast  tray. 

The  periods  allowed  them  together  were  few  and  brief, 
but  they  formed  beneficent  interludes  in  days  devoted  to 
the  upbuilding  of  a  wasted  constitution.  Whilst  Miss  Cass's 
condition  was  as  much  mental  as  physical,  her  response  was 
not  as  hearty  as  had  been  hoped.  It  was  a  week  before  she 
was  once  more  up  and  about  and  Helena  knew  it  would  be 
still  another  before  she  could  be  taken  away. 

One  afternoon  they  were  seated  by  the  open  windows, 
Miss  Cass  wrapped  in  a  heavy  blanket  against  the  cold, 
when  she  exclaimed  suddenly: 

"Virtue  has  its  egotism,  and  so  has  sin.  There  isn't  a 
moment  of  the  day  when  I  am  not  conscious  of  .  .  . "  She 
failed  to  name  the  word.  "That  is  why  I  want  you  to  talk 
about  me,  and  what  lies  ahead.  I  thought  several  times 
to  write  something — just  a  word  or  a  line  to  warn  you,  but 
I  couldn't.  There  is  only  one  thought  in  your  mind  now, 
mother,  and  only  one  in  my  own.  Tell  me  what  you  felt 
when  you  saw  me  and  for  the  first  time  knew  the 
truth.  .  .  ." 

"Later,  dear,  when  you're  stronger,  I  will  tell  you." 

"No,  mumsy,  now." 

"Very  well,  dear." 

She  slipped  her  cold,  dry  hand  in  her  daughter's  slightly 
feverish  moist  one. 

"I  was  not  surprised  as  I  had  been  warned." 

"By  whom?" 

"Jordan."  « 

"He  told  you?" 

Mrs.  Cass  nodded  her  head  in  silent  confirmation. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"When?" 

"Immediately  after  your  letter  came  I  communicated  with 
him.  I  told  him  I  was  coming  here.  And  as  he  knew  we 


2i 8        SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

would  be  together  again  in  a  few  hours  he  told  me,  for  the 
first  time,  what  you  had  written  from  Madrid." 

"You  left  him  in  Paris?" 

"No.    He's  at  the  village." 

"Jordan  is  here  in  Spain?" 

"Of  course.  We  made  the  trip  together.  He  comes  up 
to  the  convent  every  evening  to  hear  how  you  are.  He  and 
I  take  a  short  turn  outside  the  walls,  and  I  repeat  what 
you  have  said  and  tell  him  how  you  look." 

"Then  you  don't  object  to  him  any  more?" 

"I  don't  object  to  anything  that  can  bring  you  happiness, 
dear.  All  I  want  is  that  you  should  forget  everything  which 
has  passed." 

For  some  time  they  sat  with  clasped  hands,  silent,  then 
Miss  Cass  voiced  her  thought. 

"Jordan  must  be  miserably  lonely.  * 

"He  is  not  alone.    Roscoe  is  with  him." 

"Roscoe?" 

"Yes." 

"Roscoe  came  all  the  way  from  New  York?" 

Mrs.  Cass  nodded. 

"You  mean  he's  given  up  his  business?" 

"Temporarily.     He's  made  finding  you  his  business." 

Again  they  were  silent.  But  Miss  Cass  was  unable  to 
stem  the  questions  which  came  automatically  to  her  lips. 

"When  can  I  see  Jordan?"  she  asked  with  pleading. 

"The  day  you  leave  the  convent." 

"And  when  will  that  be?" 

"It  depends  entirely  upon  you." 

"Since  you've  planned  everything  I  suppose  you  have 
some  plan  for  my  future?" 

"I  have.  But  we  won't  discuss  it  until  you  are  stronger. 
Here  comes  Sister  Celestina  with  some  nice-looking  broth 
for  you.  Tell  her  she  can  take  my  chair." 

When  the  morning  of  her  departure  came  Miss  Cass 
was  dressed  in  the  garments  her  mother  had  supplied  her. 
Her  costume  completed,  she  was  wrapped  in  a  long  drapery 
thrown  over  one  shoulder  in  deceptive  folds.  Her  appear- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       219 

ance  was  somewhat  oracular  as  she  bade  the  Reverend 
Mother  good-bye  and  the  stout,  near-sighted  portress 
opened  the  green  door,  allowing  her  eternal  egress  to  the 
world. 

Mrs.  Cass  took  her  arm  and  they  began  their  descent.  At 
a  turn  in  the  road  before  them  she  explained  that  Roscoe 
and  Mr.  Buel  were  awaiting  them  with  a  carriage.  Since 
her  mother  had  supplied  her  with  a  mirror  she  had  been 
only  slightly  reassured  by  its  use.  She  now  wondered 
what  Mr.  Buel  would  say,  and  if  his  eyes  would  belie  his 
words  after  he  had  seen  her.  They  made  the  turn  and  in  a 
moment  she  confronted  him. 

"Nell!" 

The  mixture  of  surprise  and  pleasure  on  his  face  was 
so  genuine  as  to  be  comic.  There  was  nothing  subtle  about 
her  lover,  she  averred,  as  he  took  her  gently  in  his  arms. 
But  his  kisses  she  had  been  so  long  denied  were  more  life- 
giving  than  she  remembered.  She  flushed  in  answer,  aware 
of  witnesses.  He  had  not  changed.  She  was  conscious  of 
the  first  faint  masculine  nearness,  the  flavour  of  tobacco 
that  seemed  even  to  have  permeated  his  hair.  At  the  sight 
of  her  he  had  pulled  off  his  cap  and  the  boyish  gesture 
which  revealed  its  thick  darkness  made  her  feel  a  desire 
she  had  often  experienced  before,  to  run  her  fingers 
through  it. 

"It's  really  you,  dearest,"  he  exclaimed.  "And  you  know 
how  I've  worried?" 

"Have  you,  dear?" 

"Do  you  doubt  it?" 

"Not  if  you  say  so." 

And  then  he  kissed  her  again  and  this  time  all  Her 
scruples  were  quieted.  Delighted  as  she  was,  Miss  Cass, 
nevertheless,  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  that  Mr.  Buel 
was  looking  as  well  as  upon  their  last  encounter.  She 
had  her  mother's  word  that  he  had  worried  but  his  alarm 
had  not  made  itself  physically  evident.  He  was  wearing  a 
loose  cheviot  travelling  coat,  in  which  the  bulk  of  him 


220       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

seemed  to  have  increased,  his  colour  grown  more  pro- 
nounced, his  eyes  brighter. 

"You're  the  same  old  Nell." 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not,"  she  said  quickly. 

Mr.  Buel  released  her  as  her  eyes  fastened  on  Roscoe 
with  less  confidence.  She  felt  very  unsure  of  her  tall, 
controlled,  matured  young  brother  as  he  watched  her,  a 
personality  seemingly  without  need  of  words.  He  put  out 
a  strong,  lean  hand  and  then  permitted  her  kiss  as  though 
in  doubt  how  to  accept  it. 

"It's  all  right  now,  sis,"  he  said  quietly.  "Everything's 
going  O.K.  from  now  on.  I'll  see  to  that." 

He  assisted  her  and  Mrs.  Cass  into  the  carriage  and  drove 
the  animals,  with  conscious  pride,  briskly  in  silence.  Helena 
had  looked  forward  to  the  present  moment  for  emotional 
replenishment  and  was  aware  of  the  disappointment  of  an 
anti-climax  now  it  had  been  enacted. 

Aboard  the  train  that  was  carrying  her  from  Spanish 
soil  she  and  Mr.  Buel  were  seated  beside  the  window.  She 
promptly  discarded  hat  and  veil  within  the  stateroom  of 
the  wagon-lit.  Her  shrouded  appearance  had  apparently 
caused  no  interest  at  the  station  and  in  the  train  her 
anonymity  remained  undisturbed. 


XXVI 

SEFTON'S  mind  was  spinning.  While  the  ignorant  fellow 
continued  his  story  he  attempted  to  disentangle  and  explain 
the  various  moves  and  strategies.  He  did  not  dare  inter- 
rupt Hipolito's  narrative.  Nor  did  he  urge  more  wine  upon 
him,  fearing  to  blur  an  articulation  no  longer  distinct. 
Instead,  he  sat  motionless  in  the  little  grape-arbour,  living 
over  the  experience  which  the  dull  fellow's  words  rein- 
spirited  in  the  glowing  light  and  dappled  shadows  before 
his  eyes. 

"She  has  been  at  the  convent,  but  she  left  with  her 
mother,  brother  and  fiance?  Let  me  make  sure  that  I  un- 
derstand you  perfectly?" 

"Yes,  Senor." 

"How  long  ago  did  she  leave?" 

Hipolito  thrust  his  hair  out  of  his  eyes  and  then  shifted 
in  his  chair.  The  question  was  obviously  a  difficult  one  for 
him  to  answer.  The  passage  of  time  moved  unrecorded 
in  his  muddled  brain,  the  difference  of  season  registering 
itself  only  as  the  time  for  planting  melons  and  cucumbers, 
and  the  time  for  picking  grapes  and  storing  grain  and  oil. 
This  recalled  that  it  was  still  winter  when  the  senorita  left. 
Upon  Sefton's  pressing  him  for  his  reason,  he  admitted 
that  the  ground  had  not  yet  been  made  ready  for  the  spring 
planting.  But  when  urged  to  tell  the  year  Hipolito  was 
completely  at  a  loss.  It  was  not  the  past  winter ;  of  that  he 
was  quite  sure.  But  if  it  was  the  preceding  or  the  one  be- 
fore that  he  could  not  be  definite. 

"Let  there  be  no  misunderstanding  as  to  the  principal 
factors  of  your  story,  my  brother.  The  young  lady  arrived 
at  the  convent  during  the  eighth  month  of  the  year?" 

The  fellow  acquiesced. 

"She  remained  about  five  months?" 


221 


222       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

He  thought  so. 

"It  was  accordingly  in  January  that  her  mother  came 
to  her?  Am  I  right?" 

Hipolito  was  no  longer  sure.  He  seemed  suddenly  c,on- 
fused.  Assaulted  by  the  memory  of  what  had  actually 
taken  place,  his  speech  ceased  to  be  lucid.  Questions  the 
more  reiterated  and  the  more  simply  phrased  caused  him 
increasing  embarrassment. 

"Between  friends,"  Sefton  continued,  "there  is  no  need 
of  weighing  each  word  so  carefully.  Speak  out,  brother. 
Be  frank  with  me." 

With  an  easy  gesture  he  extended  his  cigarette-case  in  an 
attempt  to  bridge  the  dullard's  consciousness  of  the  inequal- 
ities which  separated  them.  But  this  act,  intended  to  pro- 
voke a  spirit  of  camaraderie,  was  without  any  such  effect. 
Hipolito  attempted  to  clean  his  hands  by  friction  against 
his  soiled  corduroy  trousers  before  selecting  one  of  the 
white  cylinders.  Then,  as  the  light  glittered  on  the  metal 
and  he  saw  the  case  was  gold,  he  muttered  aloud : 

"Holy  Virgin" 

Instead  he  loosened  the  /a/a  he  wore,  removed  tobacco 
from  it  and  adroitly  rolled  a  cigarette  himself  and  began 
to  smoke  it.  He  took  off  his  broad-brimmed  hat  and 
scratched  his  dull  head.  Sefton  noticed  the  grey  in  his 
hair  grew  irregularly  in  patches  out  of  the  thick  black 
thatch. 

"You  are  not  sure  that  it  was  in  January  that  the  sefiorita 
left,"  the  novelist  persisted. 

Hipolito  looked  up  at  him  appealingly  under  his  heavy 
brows.  His  was  the  troubled  expression  of  an  animal  at 
having  words  used  unknown  to  its  simple  vocabulary. 

"Excelentisimo,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  know." 

"If  not  January  precisely,  we  at  least  know  it  was  about 
then,  don't  we?  Are  you  sure  the  convent  has  since  been 
in  communication  with  the  sefiorita?" 

"I  do  not  know,  your  excellency." 

"Have  you  never  spoken  of  her  to  anyone?" 

"No." 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       223 

"And  you  have  never  seen  her  again?" 

The  fellow  was  silent  a  moment  and  then  shook  his  head. 
Sefton  was  aware  that  this  taciturn  mood  was  something 
more  than  dullness.  Hipolito  had  evidently  decided  to  say 
no  more,  and  no  amount  of  baiting  would  lure  his  unwary 
tongue  into  further  admissions.  But,  in  spite  of  his  disin- 
clination to  talk,  certain  incontrovertible  facts  remained, 
which  even  later  disavowals  could  not  altogether  disturb. 
Momentarily  flushed  and  excited  by  wine,  the  man  had 
been  induced  to  say  things  which  when  dead  sober  he  would 
refute.  He  realised  now  he  had  told  matters  which  if 
known  in  the  Convent  of  the  Adoration  might  lead  to  his 
permanent  dismissal.  At  the  thought  he  was  like  a  child 
threatened  with  expulsion  from  an  institution  for  the  de- 
fective. The  convent  garden  was  home  to  the  broken  mech- 
anism of  his  brain,  and  the  idea  that  he  should  ever  be 
debarred  from  it  filled  him  with  formless  terrors,  the  more 
to  be  feared  because  unknown. 

Sefton  at  once  had  recourse  to  wine  as  the  only  means 
of  refiring  the  fellow's  loquacity.  He  therefore  filled  his 
glass  with  the  home  brew  from  the  earthen  botijo.  The 
wine  was  heavy  and  when  held  to  the  light  its  colour  not 
clear.  It  was  made  of  the  juice  of  grapes  that  were  thrown 
into  the  vat  to  which  honey  and  lime  were  added.  The 
posadero  had  protested  against  offering  Hipolito  anything 
better,  insisting  that  his  coarse  palate  was  unable  to  distin- 
guish the  more  delicate  savours.  Sefton  found  on  tasting 
it  that  it  was  not  as  unpleasant  as  one  might  suppose,  from 
its  absence  of  refining,  even  while  far  removed  from  the 
wines  of  the  great  bodegas  of  Spain. 

Now,  as  he  placed  the  filled  tumbler  before  the  gardener, 
hoping  to  dislodge  the  obstacle  to  speech,  the  hapless  fellow 
shook  his  head. 

"Muchas  gracias,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hand  to  indicate 
that  he  would  have  no  more. 

What  had  come  over  the  dullard,  Sefton  asked  himself, 
to  account  for  this  determination?  It  was  not  that  wine 
had  ceased  to  be  a  temptation.  No,  Hipolito  had  decided 


224       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

to  be  uninforming,  and  for  a  moment  they  remained  si- 
lent, each  returning  the  regard  of  the  other.  Then  the 
fellow  dropped  his  eyes.  The  man's  incapacities  were 
apparent  enough,  and  the  automatism  which  guided  his  sim- 
ple actions,  but  Sefton  was  unable  to  control  them.  The 
novelist's  elation  at  a  part  of  the  narrative  was  evidently 
to  be  short-lived,  and  yet  in  spite  of  the  fellow's  unsound- 
ness  he  was  confident  that  he  knew  where  Miss  Cass  had 
gone.  An  incalculable  knowledge  had  made  itself  felt  by 
his  words  which  all  his  denials  could  not  recapture.  This 
gardener  knew  everything! 

He  would  begin  with  gentleness,  since  threats  were  in- 
expedient, but  if  this  method  was  unsuccessful  he  would 
use  force.  So  he  planned,  as  moving  his  chair  nearer  and 
bending  over  the  table,  he  continued: 

"The  senorita  left  the  convent  a  year  or  so  ago,  and  you 
have  never  seen  her  since,  Hipolito.  Did  I  understand  you 
to  say  that?" 

With  a  cry  like  a  distressed  animal,  Hipolito  flung  out 
of  the  arbour  and  was  gone.  Sefton  was  quick  to  move. 
He  ran  after  him,  but,  turning  the  angle  of  the  inn,  he 
found  the  man  had  disappeared.  He  continued  across  the 
paseo,  but  there  was  no  one  visible  except  a  young  mother 
seated  in  a  doorway  brushing  her  child's  hair.  Had  she 
seen  a  man  run  by?  At  first  she  did  not  understand  the 
question.  By  the  time  he  had  explained  that  it  was  Hipo- 
lito, the  gardener  and  carter  he  sought,  she  agreed  he  had 
passed,  although  she  had  not  noticed  which  direction  he 
had  taken. 

When  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town  he  discovered 
the  fellow  was  gone.  Standing  in  the  roadway  he  could  see 
far  ahead  a  taranta  continuing  up  the  hillside.  The  mule 
was  being  belaboured  and  shouted  at.  The  man  was  al- 
ready too  far  off  to  be  overtaken,  and  as  he  watched  the 
fellow  drew  up  before  the  convent  gate. 

Sefton  returned  to  the  town,  baffled,  disheartened,  feel- 
ing that  he  had  robbed  himself  of  his  best  chance  of  ob- 
taining news  of  Helena.  Reentering  the  grape-arbour,  he 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       225 

discovered  the  manta  which  Hipolito  wore  over  his  shoul- 
der. He  had  evidently  forgotten  it  in  his  haste.  Picking 
it  up,  it  seemed  to  excrete  earthly  odors  and  animal  as 
well.  It  was  probably  on  occasion  used  as  a  mule  blanket. 
He  reported  the  incident  to  the  inn-keeper,  who  assured 
him  that  the  fellow  would  return  for  it  directly  he  was 
aware  of  his  loss,  and  when  he  did  the  senor  should  obtain 
civil  answers  to  his  questions.  But  with  nightfall  Hipolito 
did  not  return. 

His  host,  always  ready  with  explanations,  insisted  that 
the  gardener  had  not  discovered  the  loss  of  his  blanket  yet. 
The  following  day  he  declared  that  the  fellow  was  kept  hard 
at  work  at  the  convent  and  would  not  be  allowed  time  to 
come  to  the  village  until  nightfall.  Accordingly  Sefton 
waited  for  him.  Undeceived  by  the  gardener's  plight,  the 
novelist  knew  he  possessed  the  entire  story  of  Helena,  or 
otherwise  he  would  not  be  frightened  by  what  he  had  told. 
He  had  said  too  much  without,  however,  telling  her  present 
hiding-place,  if  she  was  still  alive.  This  last  motive  was 
the  more  sobering.  He  tried  again  and  again  to  pierce 
that  disorganized  brain;  fresh  tentatives  suggested  his  go- 
ing to  the  convent  and  were  put  down  for  a  more  logical 
plan. 

The  inn-keeper  continued  to  urge  that  nothing  short  of 
life  or  death  would  decide  the  simple  gardener  to  relinquish 
his  blanket.  But  when  a  second  and  a  third  day  passed 
without  the  man's  being  heard  from,  he  admitted  he  was 
puzzled.  But  Sefton  remained  undeceived.  He  waited  un- 
til the  fourth  day,  then,  as  the  man  did  not  return,  he  left 
abruptly  for  Paris. 


BOOK  IV 


XXVII 

UPON  arrival,  Jay  Sefton  went  first  to  the  American 
Ambassador.  But  it  was  from  his  secretary  he  learned 
that  Monsieur  Georges  Durand  was  no  longer  in  the  diplo- 
matic service  but  at  the  moment  living  in  France  and  a 
member  of  the  Jockey  Club.  He  addressed  a  note  to  him  at 
le  Jockey,  asking  for  a  rendezvous,  but  it  was  not  until  a 
week  later  that  he  obtained  a  reply.  It  appeared  that  Mon- 
sieur Durand  was  out  of  touch  with  his  club  and^only  occa- 
sionally despatched  a  messenger  there  for  his  letters,  since 
he  had  been  posted  as  in  arrears. 

The  letter,  while  written  on  club  paper,  gave  a  number 
in  the  Rue  Taitbout  as  his  own  address,  and  there  at  the 
hour  appointed  Mr.  Sefton  was  driven.  The  number  was 
at  the  top  of  the  street  in  the  direction  of  St.  Lazare.  He 
verified  the  address  by  the  concierge,  who  directed  him 
across  a  court  and  he  ascended  two  flights  of  steep,  dark 
stairs,  and  found  himself  facing  a  door  painted  a  bright 
ultramarine,  to  which  had  been  affixed  a  brass  knocker. 
Sefton  hesitated  a  moment,  restrained  a  smile  while  making 
mental  annotation  that  "Durand  was  a  lightweight." 

The  door  was  opened  promptly  in  answer  to  his  sum- 
mons by  Monsieur  Durand  himself,  wearing  a  dressing- 
gown  of  wine-coloured  brocade  with  a  broad  sash  and  red 
morocco  slippers.  He  apologized  for  the  absence  of  his  man, 
and  Sefton  was  led  within  a  diminutive  flat  that  appeared 
too  small  for  master  and  valet  to  inhabit  simultaneously. 
They  passed  through  a  compressed  library  that  was  so  dark 
as  to  be  lighted  day  and  night  by  electricity  and  entered  a 
small  sitting-room.  This  was  furnished  with  pretentious 

226 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       227 

Louis  Quatorze  reproductions  and  enlivened  with  a  quan- 
tity of  silver-framed  photographs  of  ladies  of  the  bean 
monde  and  several  fashionable  modaines.  His  host  indi- 
cated a  chair  for  him  near  the  window,  happily  of  tinted 
glass,  as  a  means  to  interdict  an  uninspired  view.  Sefton 
seated  himself  while  the  Frenchman  was  busied  with  a 
brew  of  tea. 

"You  are  surprised  at  my  persistence  in  asking  to  see 
you,"  he  began.  "But  I  have  in  my  pocket  your  statement 
in  a  French  paper  made  a  year  after  Miss  Cass  disap- 
peared." 

"Yes?" 

"That  is  what  I  want  to  ask  you  about.  Will  you  tell 
me  just  where  you  saw  her  and  exactly  what  happened?" 

Monsieur  Durand  eyed  him  for  a  moment  in  silence,  as 
though  debating  how  much  he  would  tell.  Beneath  vague 
eyes  stood  wedges  of  loose  flesh,  and  the  eyes  themselves 
had  the  lack-lustre  stare  of  long-continued  irregularities. 
It  was  obvious  that  Monsieur  Durand  had  once  been  "beau 
garqon"  of  the  Boulevards,  but  his  face  now  seemed  more 
like  that  of  a  pretty  woman  turned  passe,  which  massage 
had  robbed  of  every  expression,  leaving  only  a  record  of 
sleepless  nights  and  want  of  exercise. 

Sefton  had  been  puzzled  by  the  memory  of  having  seen 
this  face  before  without  being  able  to  place  it.  Now  the 
incident  fixed  itself  in  his  memory.  Monsieur  Durand 
was  the  companion  of  the  lady  who  had  passed  him  on 
Fifth  Avenue  in  an  open  motor  last  fall,  whom  he  had  the 
hardihood  to  follow  through  a  fancied  resemblance  to 
Helena  Cass. 

The  Frenchman  poured  tea  from  a  steaming  silver  urn 
into  two  tumblers  of  clouded  amber  glass.  "Russian  style," 
he  remarked  simply,  as  he  slipped  an  elliptic  of  lemon 
pierced  with  a  clove  into  each  and  passed  cigarettes  scented 
with  verbena.  Mr.  Sefton  took  a  couple  of  puffs  at  the 
nauseous  mess  and  then  allowed  it  to  go  out.  Monsieur 
Durand  had  during  the  interval  of  tea  preparation  decided 
to  be  frank,  and  now  remarked  with  his  recurring  smile 


228       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

that  he  would  tell  all  he  knew.  He  spoke  a  colourless, 
painstaking  English,  laboriously  manufactured,  embel- 
lishing his  experience  with  all  that  detail,  the  necessary 
decor  of  an  acknowledged  raconteur. 

Sefton  had  already  obtained  information  about  the 
Frenchman  from  other  sources.  Georges  Durand's  parents 
were  provincial  from  the  south  and  he,  as  a  younger  man, 
upon  coming  to  Paris,  had  made  influential  friends  in  the 
fashionable  world  through  an  aptitude  for  the  social 
graces.  But,  although  an  acceptable  fourth  at  bridge,  an 
intelligent  critic  for  a  "private  view,"  and  especially  apt 
companion  at  the  opening  of  an  atelier  of  modes,  still  he 
was  scarcely  a  parti  for  matrimony.  Monsieur  Durand 
had  no  money  of  his  own  nor  any  prospects.  He  could  live 
without  a  perceptible  margin  off  the  returns  of  his  calling, 
but  even  these  were  precarious  as  approaching  thirty  he 
was  found  to  be  without  a  future.  He  had  entered  the 
diplomatic  corps,  been  sent  to  Washington,  and  had  re- 
turned greatly  disheartened,  unable  to  contract  an  American 
match  of  a  desirable  kind.  To-day  he  was  left  in  the  ig- 
nominious position  of  "looking  around."  Helpful  friends 
suggested  that  he  was  made  of  the  material  of  a  successful 
motor-car  salesman.  They  held  that  his  acquaintance,  his 
well-cut  clothes  and  his  general  empressement  would  argue 
in  his  favour  in  pressing  sales  of  the  newest  de  luxe  cars 
on  the  rich  ladies  of  the  half-world  and  the  newer  million- 
aires of  trade.  Others  fancied  his  being  a  club  secretary, 
but  they  were  both  dismal  occupations,  and  in  the  meantime 
he  was  losing  faith  in  himself.  It  would  not  have  con- 
cerned him  to  owe  money  to  his  tailor;  that  was  a  gentle- 
man's privilege,  but  to  be  posted  at  the  club  savoured  of 
desperate  straights. 

When  he  brought  his  account  to  an  end,  he  looked  at  his 
visitor  for  approbation.  Sef ton's  eyes  were  fastened  upon 
the  large  emerald  that  glowed  sullenly. in  his  tie  and  he 
made  no  immediate  comment.  It  was  not  until  they  had 
reviewed  the  incident  and  Monsieur  Durand  had  given  all 
the  facts,  together  with  such  suppositions  as  occurred  to 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       229 

him,  that  his  visitor  rose.  Monsieur  Durand's  avis  was 
neither  of  considerable  extent  nor  of  great  acuteness.  His 
mentality  covered  a  wide  surface,  but  was  of  thin  outlay. 

"Should  you  hear  of  Miss  Cass  again  in  any  way,  you 
will  perhaps  let  me  know?" 

Monsieur  Durand  was  on  his  feet  now. 

"With  pleasure." 

He  led  his  visitor  through  the  lighted  library  and  then 
paused  before  the  door  of  the  flat.  His  own  appearance 
with  an  enlargement  of  himself  astride  a  hunter,  on  the 
wall  behind  him,  in  impeccable  hunting  clothes,  surrounded 
by  the  hound's  of  Chevy  Chase,  was  a  compromise  between 
luxury  and  something  less  than  the  necessities,  wherein  he 
lived. 

"I  have  heard  of  the  reward  that  her  father  has  offered, 
and  if  anything  that  I  tell  you  helps  in  her  recovery  I  shall, 
of  course,  feel  that  I  am  deserving  of  my  share  of  it." 

"No  doubt." 

Monsieur  Durand  now  opened  the  door,  and  his  visitor 
made  his  way  down  the  stairs,  striding  across  the  court.  He 
summoned  a  cab  with  directions  to  drive  to  the  Etoile, 
where  he  drew  up  at  i  bis  Avenue  Kleber.  He  gave  his 
card  to  the  valet-de-pied  and  requested  to  see  the  Marquis 
de  Lanel.  After  waiting  for  several  minutes  he  was  led  up 
a  flight  of  stairs  to  the  salon.  An  artful  assembling  of 
flowers  in  wedgwood  vases  were  disposed  upon  consols. 
The  size  of  the  salon  was  lessened  by  being  faintly  scented 
with  an  essence  intimate,  suggestive,  not  of  natural  flowers. 

He  had  already  grown  restive  when  a  lady  entered.  His 
first  impression  was  of  a  blondness  recently  emphasized 
that  had  been  achieved  with  rather  less  skill  than  is  usually 
attributed  to  the  French  coiffeur.  She  had  evidently  given 
up  a  struggle  with  pale  brows  and  had  them  boldly  dyed. 
The  effect  of  black  half  crescents  above  her  eyes  was  ar- 
resting, but  threw  the  remaining  colouring  of  her  face  out 
of  scale.  The  effect  would  probably  be  pleasant  enough 
in  the  interplay  of  half-light,  but  in  the  present  surround- 
ings she  seemed  an  over-vivid  stencil. 


230       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"You  will  forgive  my  intruding,"  she  said,  speaking  with 
a  slight  accent  which  pervaded  her  speech  when  she  made 
use  of  English.  "My  husband  isn't  here,  but  when  Fran- 
c.ois  brought  up  your  card,  I  couldn't  resist  the  magic  of 
your  name.  You  see  even  in  Paris  we  have  read  'Unex- 
posed.' " 

She  smiled  at  his  boyish  flush,  pleased  by  his  very  ap- 
parent discomfort.  This  was  a  sight  that  one  saw  so 
rarely  that  certain  promptings  were  gratified  by  its  splendid 
youthfulness. 

"I  am  Madame  de  Lanel,"  she  added. 

He  bowed,  then  she  continued : 

"Aren't  you  going  to  murmur  that  national  formula  of 
all  Americans  about  being  pleased  to  meet  me?" 

"I  wilfully  refrained.     I  thought  it  might  annoy  you." 

"Why  should  you?  Of  course  you  know  I'm  an  Ameri- 
can. I  don't  see  why  people  think  I'm  a  foreigner.  Do 
you?  My  constantly  being  mistaken  for  one  annoys  me 
so.  Our  customs  are  so  dear  and  quaint  and  I  love  them 
everyone,  even  blueberry  pie,  and  .  .  .  and  what  does  one 
call  them?  Oh,  yes,  doughnuts.  Sometimes  I've  thought 
of  giving  up  my  title  if  Tristram  were  willing,  but  of  course 
that  isn't  really  what  makes  me  seem  foreign,  is  it?  It's 
having  a  Continental  mind." 

She  had  seated  herself  on  a  sofa  with  her  back  to  the 
light  and  after  these  assertions  of  her  nationality  she  in- 
quired the  cause  of  his  present  visit  to  Paris.  He  replied 
abruptly  that  he  had  come  to  see  the  Marquis  de  Lanel  to 
inquire  about  Miss  Cass,  since  he  knew  of  their  statement 
of  having  seen  her.  At  the  mere  mention  of  her  name  all 
the  woman's  reluctances  were  over-borne.  He  felt  rising 
about  them  the  turgid  waters  of  curiosity.  There  was  a 
rapacity  in  her  eyes,  hard,  glittering,  the  love  of  news  of 
every  sort,  even  disaster,  besides  which  hunger  became  a 
faint  subsidiary  passion.  He  lowered  his  gaze  for  a  mo- 
ment as  a  means  of  veiling  his  own  dislike  of  her,  which  in 
that  moment  was  active. 

"Poor  Helena,"  she  murmured.     "You  knew  her?" 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       231 

He  bowed. 

"What  an  experience.  I  did  all  that  I  could  for  her 
before  her  first  disappearance — if  I  may  term  it  that  way. 
Of  course  you  knew  she  was  visiting  me?" 

Again  he  agreed. 

"I  wrote  to  her  mother  several  notes  of  condolence,  but 
she  never  answered  any  of  them.  I  don't  think  she  under- 
stood her  daughter.  I  couldn't  write  her  the  second  time; 
instead  I  placed  a  statement  in  the  paper.  I  felt  that  was 
the  most  I  could  do.  I  really  could  not  overcome  a  very 
natural  pride  in  not  addressing  Mrs.  Cass  again." 

Out  of  a  flood  of  reminiscences  she  checked  further 
words. 

"Why  don't  you  dine  with  us  to-night  and  after  dinner 
my  husband  and  I  will  tell  you  everything.  I  must  be 
excused  now.  My  doctor  insists  that  I  lie  down  every 
day.  My  nerves  aren't  very  strong,"  she  said  plaintively. 
"I  find  I  have  more  enthusiasm  than  strength.  Dinner 
at  8:30." 

Jay  Sefton  felt  the  annoyance  of  being  exploited  for  a 
purpose,  when  returning  that  evening  he  discovered  the 
Lanels  were  entertaining.  As  he  entered  the  salon  Madame 
de  Lanel  detached  herself  from  a  vivacious  group  to  ap- 
proach with  an  extended  left  hand.  She  was  wearing 
petunia  satin  and  all  her  emeralds.  The  lights  had  been 
attuned  to  her  complexion  and  in  their  dimness  she  looked 
not  unattractive. 

"I  had  forgotten  I  was  giving  a  dinner  to-night  when 
I  asked  you,"  she  said. 

"It  doesn't  make  the  least  difference  in  the  world.  Of 
course  I  shan't  stay,  but  I  can  see  you  some  other  time, 
can't  I?" 

She  laid  a  hand  loaded  with  rings  upon  his  arm  before 
he  could  take  a  step  toward  the  door. 

"You  can't  leave  me  this  way.  I've  invited  a  very 
charming  partner  just  for  you,"  she  added  shrewdly.  "My 
dinner-table  is  nicely  balanced  now  and  I  shan't  allow  you 


232       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

to  upset  it.  In  Paris  you  know  one  introduces.  I  want 
you  to  meet  all  of  the  most  charming  women  here." 

He  knew  that  Madame  de  Lanel  had  not  forgotten  her 
dinner.  On  the  contrary,  her  only  reason  for  coming 
downstairs  that  afternoon  had  been  because  of  an  eleventh- 
hour  refusal,  and  an  author  would  be  something  of  a 
novelty  for  her  table  and  quite  the  easiest  way  of  obtain- 
ing a  single  man.  In  fact,  now  that  she  had  him  well  in 
hand,  she  gave  up  all  pretence  of  continuing  this  amiable 
fiction.  He  found  himself  with  little  sympathy  for  the 
strategies  of  the  perpetual  hostess. 

Seated  on  Madame  de  Lanel's  left  his  other  neighbour 
proved  to  be  an  American  lady  married  to  a  Frenchman 
of  historic  name  whose  likeness  was  given  to  adorning  the 
New  York  press.  He  looked  across  the  heaped  epergne  in 
the  centre  of  the  table,  to  his  host.  Monsieur  de  Lanel  was 
still  delicate-looking,  still  withdrawn  as  though  his  little 
ironies  with  the  world  were  never  poignant  enough  to  need 
expression.  His  wife  was  a  ready  subject  for  his  silent 
criticisms,  Sefton  thought^  since  she  had  cultivated  an 
imperfect  English  in  order  to  give  the  impression  of  speak- 
ing more  accurately  in  the  French  idiom. 

When  the  ladies  withdrew  he  selected  a  chair  near  Mon- 
sieur de  Lanel  and  cornered  him  for  a  moment.  He  told 
of  his  visit  that  afternoon  and  of  the  Marquise's  promise 
to  tell  him  of  their  encounter  with  Miss  Cass.  He  asked 
"him  to  name  an  hour  when  he  might  hear  of  their  meeting. 
At  first  Monsieur  de  Lanel  refused  to  make  any  such  prom- 
ise. He  had  not  seen  that  young  lady  since  she  left  his 
roof.  But  as  Sefton  persevered  and  the  Marquis  failed 
to  dissemble  the  fact,  he  at  length  agreed  to  see  him  in 
his  cabinet-de-travail  at  three  next  day. 

Sefton  walked  home  to  his  hotel  that  night.  Spring  was 
in  the  air,  mild,  luscious,  promising.  He  had  noticed  a  ten- 
der thread  of  colour  during  the  day  had  appeared  over- 
head in  the  chestnuts,  piping  each  branch  with  an  almost 
bitter  green.  Gardeners  were  busy  filling  parterres  at  the 
Tuileries  and  the  Round  Point  of  the  Ely  see  with  tulips 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       233; 

that  were  already  unfurling  their  colours.  The  Alcazar 
d'fite,  the  Marigny  and  the  other  music  halls  along  the 
Avenue  were  preparing  for  open-air  audiences,  and  the 
Boulevards  were  no  longer  rilled  with  shut-motors.  The 
depression  of  winter  was  over  and  in  his  heart  he  was 
conscious  of  an  encouraging  hope  that  had  no  basis  for  ex- 
istence, and  yet  could  not  be  eradicated. 

He  found  Monsieur  de  Lanel  waiting  for  him  next  day 
in  his  cabinet-de-travail  when  he  was  announced.  H£  was 
led  within  and  the  door  closed  after  him.  Seated  behind 
an  empire  desk  surmounted  by  a  great  dossier,  he  surveyed 
his  visitor  in  the  surroundings  of  the  pleasant,  book-lined 
room.  To  all  questions  he  was  indefinite,  slightly  apolo- 
getic and  always  vague.  Yes,  Edith  had  made  certain  ill- 
advised  statements.  Ladies  were  hasty.  He  did  not  concur 
with  what  she  had  written.  He  was  distinctly  uncertain  of 
the  young  woman  being  Miss  Cass. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  realised  the  futility  of 
attempting  to  press  Monsieur  de  Lanel  further.  He  rose, 
they  shook  hands,  and  he  took  his  leave.  A  footman  was 
summoned  to  conduct  him  to  the  door.  As  he  descended 
the  stairs,  the  valet-de-pied  spoke: 

"Madame  la  Marquise  wishes  to  see  monsieur  before  he 
goes.  She  is  waiting  for  him  downstairs." 

"At  present?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

The  door  of  the  petit  salon  was  opened. 

Madame  de  Lanel  was  standing  before  a  commode  of 
tulipwood  cuivre,  surmounted  by  a  bust  of  Diane  de  Poi- 
tiers, with  a  great  Beauvais  tapestry  behind  making  a  mel- 
low background  to  her  fairness.  She  was  wearing  black, 
and,  as  she  stood  with  her  back  to  the  light,  he  could  not 
see  if  the  ornaments  she  wore  were  some  preposterous 
dressmaker's  decoration  or  historic  sapphires  in  the  great 
breast-piece  which  glittered  through  her  lace. 

"I  asked  to  have  you  stop  a  moment,"  she  said,  speaking 
as  though  their  meeting  was  a  conspiracy,  "because  I  felt 
there  were  details  Tristram  might  overlook  which  would 


234       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

be  helpful  to  you.  You  need  not  tell  him  so,  however. 
It  might  seem  to  him  disloyal.  .  .  .  He's  very  delicate  on 
certain  points,  and  the  whole  affair  is  genant  and  has  dis- 
tressed him,  naturally." 

Her  eyes  were  like  agate  as  she  spoke.  And  there  was 
a  subdued  excitement  in  her  manner.  She  led  him  to  two 
chairs  and  they  seated  themselves.  As  she  began  to  speak 
his  mind  wandered,  for  hers  was  not  a  personality  to  claim 
one's  attention.  He  heard  her  words  through  a  mist  of 
perfume  of  lilacs  d'altesse  that  clouded  his  sight,  while  the 
outline  of  the  real  woman  etched  itself  indelibly  upon  his 
consciousness. 

A  strange,  complex  person,  of  abortive  tenderness  and 
sterile  sympathy.  A  creature  given  to  the  constant  rehand- 
ling  of  that  bric-a-brac  which  she  was  pleased  to  call  her 
"emotions."  In  a  moment  he  had  guessed  her  secret.  She 
loved  her  husband  with  a  devotion  consuming,  neurotic. 
Affection  with  her  was  something  which  did  not  invigorate, 
but  strangled.  Hers  was  the  love  which  the  ivy  feels  for 
the  tree  it  rots,  closing  in  upon  it,  keeping  out  the  light; 
an  egotism  strong,  fiberous,  interwoven  like  a  tumor,  want- 
ing to  be  a  part  of  its  life,  its  health,  its  very  organism. 
But  her  passion  was  unable  to  give  expression  to  itself  in 
any  of  the  kindlier  forms  which  would  have  affected  him. 

Instead  she  was  very  gently  thwarted.  She  was  jealous 
of  his  every  attention  and  her  torment  revealed  itself  in 
icy  silence  in  which  she  felt  unable  to  compete  with  the 
delicate  point  of  his  more  scholarly  and  fluent  French.  In 
any  exchange  of  words  she  was  at  the  disadvantage  of 
speaking  a  foreign  language,  whereas  his  speech  was  al- 
ways a  model  of  form,  courteous,  subtle,  idiomatic.  She 
was  jealous  of  his  interests  of  which  she  was  ignorant, 
of  his  erudition  which  she  could  not  follow.  She  was  dis- 
appointed in  being  childless  and  distressed  by  her  gradually 
slacking  appearance.  She  suffered  through  days  of  de- 
pression in  which  she  realised  that  in  spite  of  her  money 
she  was  commonplace.  Fear  at  finding  her  golden  hair  had 
lost  its  lustre  had  precipitated  her  into  the  mistake  of 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       235 

having  it  recoloured,  and  since  the  result  had  left  her  fea- 
tureless she  had  assumed  different  brows.  She  made 
constant  trips  to  the  dressmakers,  and  had  hysterics  at  the 
results.  The  beaute  du  diable  she  craved  sometimes  made 
her  look  accessible,  and  the  simplicity  she  admired  accen- 
tuated her  weaker  points.  She  endured  days  of  tumult  and 
nights  without  sleep. 

Sefton  found  himself  engrossed,  like  some  specialist,  at 
this  pathologic  display,  as  loops  of  her  strange  involved 
disposition  were  unwound  before  him  all  unconsciously. 
He  had  applied  an  X-ray  to  her  soul  and  every  aspect 
was  bared.  She  was  morbid  with  nerves  that  clamoured 
for  some  natural  outlet  which  they  were  denied.  Under 
prey  of  such  imaginings  she  encouraged  curious  phantasma. 
She  became  totally  unreasoning,  of  uncontrolled  speech  and 
sinister  motives.  At  other  times,  her  inner  organism  in 
ferment,  she  attempted  to  quiet  between  periods  of  fear 
and  depression  by  futile  extravagance,  incontinent  quarrel- 
ing and  objectless  travel. 

Much  that  she  said  was  perilously  near  the  truth,  but 
coming  from  her  lips  wilfully  distorted  and  misshapen.  He 
was  amazed  by  her  acuteness  and  her  inability  to  overcome 
her  own  condition.  If  pressed  to  give  a  reason,  she  would 
have  found  it  impossible  to  tell  the  motive  of  her  hostility 
to  Miss  Cass.  She  would  have  denied  being  anything  but 
her  friend,  and  succeeded  partially  in  convincing  herself  of 
her  own  sincerity. 

To-day,  under  cover  of  friendliness  she  gave  rein  to  her 
suppositions.  Leaning  forward  in  her  chair,  a  satin  slip- 
per extended  from  under  the  black  folds  of  the  Point  d' Ar- 
ras, she  was  attempting  to  give  whatever  was  left  of  the 
unfortunate  girl  one  final  push  with  her  pointed  toe.  He 
listened,  perplexed  by  her  understanding,  confounded  by 
her  keenness,  even  while  he  refused  all  audible  comment. 


XXVIII 

Miss  CASS  watched  Mr.  Buel  as  he  extended  himself 
between  the  two  seats,  his  rather  indolent  length  expressing 
complete  physical  relaxation.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  his 
apathy,  Miss  Cass  was  aware  he  was  not  perfectly  at  his 
ease.  She  divined  that  .he  was  afraid  of  retributive  meas- 
ures since  she  had  made  no  mention  of  what  had  taken 
place  and  what  still  remained  before  her.  She  knew  he 
blamed  himself,  that  in  his  somewhat  bludgeoning  way  he 
was  contrite  and  thoroughly  penitent. 

"I  am  following  like  a  lamb,"  she  said  at  length.  "Mother 
hasn't  told  me  yet  where  I  am  going.  She  said  she  would 
let  you  tell  me." 

"We're  on  our  way  to  France." 

"Paris?" 

"No.  We  thought  a  small  place  out  of  season  better. 
Biarritz.  I  happen  to  know  of  a  quiet  hotel.  No  one  will 
be  there  now  and  mother  says  rest  is  the  one  thing  you 
need.  How  is  that?" 

"I  am  content." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"May  I  smoke?" 

"Don't  be  formal." 

"Nell,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand,  after  neither  had 
spoken  for  several  minutes. 

"Yes,  Jordan,"  she  answered  quietly.  She  permitted 
hers  to  lie  within  his  own. 

"Do  you  love  me  at  all?" 

"Isn't  that  rather  an  undeserved  question?" 

She  saw  the  colour  mount  to  his  head  in  apoplectic 
currents  but  did  not  relent. 

"I  mean  do  you  still  love  me?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course." 

236 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       237 

"I  should  suppose  you'd  hate  me.  You've  taken  it  won- 
derfully." 

"No,  I  haven't.  But  the  one  thing  I  am  utterly  ashamed 
of  now  is  my  weakness  in  not  daring  to  stand  by  my  act. 
That  feeling  is  over.  I  don't  know  if  this  is  inherent 
strength  or  merely  nature's  obligation,  but  I  love  and  am 
going  to  fight  for  my  motherhood." 

"Sweetheart,  you're  too  glorious  for  me." 

Mr.  Buel  was  piqued  that  the  young  woman  beside  him, 
whom  he  had  once  held  in  his  arms,  should  now  seem  re- 
mote, unreal.  She  had  not  once  asked  him  a  question  or 
named  marriage  as  an  eventuality. 

He  told  her  that  he  wished  to  marry  at  once,  although 
he  realised  marriage  in  France  was  complicated,  public 
and  required  time.  He  had  suggested  running  to  England 
but  Mrs.  Cass  wished  her  daughter  to  have  two  or  three 
weeks'  rest  before  making  the  trip.  By  that  time,  if  suf- 
ficiently mended,  they  were  to  go  to  some  corner  of  North- 
umberland or  Scotland  for  the  ceremony.  After  which 
they  would  remain  in  some  outskirt  of  Torquay  for  the 
birth.  In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Cass  and  Roscoe  would  return 
home,  admit  Miss  Cass  was  found  and  was  on  her  wed- 
ding trip  along  the  Riviera.  Two  years  later  they  would 
turn  up  in  New  York,  merely  claiming  the  child  was  six 
months  younger  than  he  was. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  plan?" 

"I  am  willing  to  do  anything  so  he  won't  suffer  through 
me."  Then  she  added,  plaintively:  "I  don't  know  why 
I  persist  in  saying  'he.' " 

"I  do,"  Mr.  Buel  answered  boisterously. 

His  arms  were  around  her  and  Helena  melted  into  his 
embrace.  It  was  a  moment  of  transfusion  of  something 
closer  than  ideas.  For  in  his  embrace  all  the  smaller  feel- 
ings of  resentment,  uncertainty,  feeble  flashes  of  irony, 
were  stilled  by  the  strange  elation  that  claimed  her  once 
more  his  own,  with  the  same  definiteness  as  in  the  early 
days.  His  lips  had  a  power  of  reuniting  which  his  words 
failed  to  ratify. 


238       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Biarritz  proved  over  populous  with  English  and  Ameri- 
can visitors,  thus  rendering  Miss  Cass's  security  doubtful. 
Accordingly  she  and  her  mother  were  lodged  at  Bayonne, 
three  miles  distant,  in  pleasant  though  modest  quarters  in  a 
quaint  old  hotel  in  the  Rue  Thiers.  They  had  their  meals 
served  in  their  common  sitting-room  and  on  the  registry 
were  disguised  as  Mrs.  Dion  Tilden  and  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Palmer  of  London. 

For  the  first  time  Miss  Cass  realised  what  strict  pre- 
cautions must  be  taken  to  withhold  her  identity,  as  she 
was  allowed  to  hear  the  extent  to  which  her  disappearance 
had  been  proclaimed.  Buel  and  Roscoe,  living  openly  at 
the  Palais  under  their  own  names,  made  the  trip  once  a 
day  to  Bayonne  from  Biarritz  in  Buel's  car.  On  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  Mrs.  Cass  and  her  daughter  met  them 
and  Roscoe  yielded  his  place  to  Helena.  At  an  appointed 
hour  the  four  returned,  Miss  Cass  and  her  mother  going 
back  to  the  Rue  Thiers  and  Jordan  Buel,  with  Roscoe  be- 
side him,  drove  his  car  along  the  Grand  Plage  to  the  Hotel 
du  Palais. 

Buel,  who  knew  Biarritz  from  previous  visits,  was  fa- 
miliar with  the  country  for  miles  and  their  trips  through 
outlying  villages  and  long  agricultural  stretches  were  a  de- 
light to  Helena.  One  afternoon  at  dusk  they  visited  the 
race  course  at  La  Barre,  and  another  day  they  attempted 
San  Sebastian,  but  turned  back,  as  she  found  the  sun  too 
tiring  after  they  had  crossed  the  Spanish  frontier.  In 
this  way  the  two  weeks  passed  swiftly,  and  Helena  Cass 
gained  under  the  healing  influence  of  hours  spent  out  of 
doors  and  plans  for  a  contented  future. 

It  was  on  an  evening  following  Mrs.  Cass's  decision  to 
remain  a  third  week  that  a  severe  storm  swept  the  coast. 
The  wind  rose ;  all  night  the  blast  continued,  the  tide  rising 
to  great  heights.  In  the  morning  visitors  even  ventured 
along  the  cliffs  to  see  it  frothing  over  the  stone  wall, 
whilst  the  rain  continued  to  fall  like  a  drawing  down  from 
heaven  of  unbroken  yards  of  tulle.  At  noon  the  wind  less- 
ened and  an  hour  later  the  rain  ceased  abruptly.  Notwith- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       239 

standing  the  bad  going,  Mr.  Buel  drove  his  car  as  usual  to 
Bayonne. 

"Why  not  go  to  Biarritz  ?"  he  suggested  to  Helena.  "This 
will  be  your  one  opportunity  of  seeing  the  town  without 
being  seen  yourself.  Everyone  is  within  doors.  The  coun- 
try roads  are  out  of  the  question  to-day.  We'll  only  be 
gone  half  an  hour  and  I  will  show  you  what  the  storm  has 
done  to  the  beach  and  the  bathing  pavilion." 

Miss  Cass,  who  had  at  first  refused,  at  length  relented. 
With  her  newly  found  circumspection  she  drew  down  a 
motoring  veil  before  he  handed  her  into  the  car.  They 
sped  over  dark  shining  pavements,  under  a  continuous  rush 
of  water.  Everywhere  were  broken  trees,  shattered  glass 
and  loosened  tiles.  The  demoralisation  of  the  storm  was 
evident  on  all  sides. 

As  they  turned  from  the  Rue  de  France  into  the  Avenue 
du  Palais  Miss  Cass  noticed  that  the  streets  were  deserted 
except  of  their  native  element,  the  guests  of  the  hotels 
not  venturing  out  into  the  water  but  remaining  spec- 
tators from  enclosed  verandahs.  Mr.  Buel  drove  the 
car  in  the  direction  of  the  lighthouse.  And  then  halted  it 
on  a  deserted  stretch  where  their  view  of  the  ocean  was 
uninterrupted. 

Miss  Cass  exclaimed  as  she  saw  the  pitch  of  the  beach 
which  sloped  down  to  the  blackened  waves  each  onslaught 
carrying  away  more  of  the  sand.  Far  out  the  ocean  was 
pluming  itself  like  a  mating  bird.  The  roar  was  intense. 
The  tide  boomed  over  the  rocks  beyond,  sending  up  geysers 
of  spray.  The  water  looked  curiously  solid  like  fields  of 
green  and  black  marble  that  was  being  shattered  to  atoms 
by  intense  explosions  from  beneath.  Mr.  Buel  watched 
Helena  as  she  sat  beside  him,  her  veil  lifted,  her  attention 
never  once  diverted  from  the  tumult  before  them. 

"Watch  this  one,"  she  said,  gripping  his  arm. 

A  monumental  comber  detached  itself  from  its  fellows, 
rearing  to  an  even  greater  height  with  a  suction  that  drew 
up  sand,  discolouring  it  to  an  angry  black. 

Buel  ran  the  car  to  the  lighthouse  and  returned,  stopping 


240       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

once  more  for  a  last  look.  They  were  still  watching  en- 
grossed when  Helena  exclaimed  with  horror: 

"Look.  .   .   .  It's  a  human  being." 

They  were  silent,  intent.  On  the  crest  of  a  wave  they 
could  see  something  dark,  moving.  As  the  wave  broke 
falling  prone  on  the  beach,  they  saw  long  streamers  of 
dishevelled  seaweed  writhing. 

Miss  Cass  laughed. 

"It  was  terribly  realistic  for  a  moment.  It  looked  like 
loosened  hair." 

In  their  absorption  they  had  not  noticed  the  approach 
of  an  open  car  driven  by  a  man  who  glanced  at  them  with 
interest  as  he  passed.  The  water  beneath  his  wheels 
splashed  their  car  in  fan-like  formation. 

Miss  Cass's  face  underwent  a  change. 

"I  know  that  man,"  she  said  bluntly. 

"The  man  who  just  passed?" 

"Yes.  I  can't  recall  his  name.  I  don't  suppose  he  really 
saw  me.  He's  a  Frenchman,  who  was  attached  to  the  em- 
bassy at  Washington.  Can  you  see  by  the  mirror  on  the 
car  if  he  is  looking  this  way?" 

Mr.  Buel  slipped  down  in  his  seat  and  looked  in  the 
mirror. 

"Yes.    He's  turning  back." 

"Then  drive  on." 

The  car  sprang  forward. 

"Not  too  fast,"  Miss  Cass  cautioned.  "It  will  look  sus- 
picious. What  is  he  doing  now  ?" 

"He's  turning  his  car." 

"Then  he  recognised  me.     He's  going  to  follow." 

"What  does  he  want?" 

"The  reward,  of  course.  He  wants  to  make  sure,  and 
then  there's  the  adventure,  the  experience,  the  public- 
ity.  .  .  ." 

Buel  cursed. 

"Not  so  fast,"  Helena  repeated.  "You  can't  possibly 
get  me  back  to  Bayonne  without  his  seeing  where  I  live. 
Then  everything  will  be  up." 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       241 

"Then  what  can  I  do?"  Buel  asked  helplessly. 

"I  don't  know  yet.  Only  you  can't  prevent  his  overtaking* 
us.  If  you  attempt  fast  driving,  you'll  have  an  accident  or 
be  arrested.  There's  no  gain  there." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"I'm  thinking." 

She  had  drawn  down  her  veil. 

Turning  slightly,  she  looked  back.  The  car  was  not  over 
a  hundred  feet  away  and  it  was  gaining  on  them. 

Whatever  plans  were  made  would  have  to  be  completed 
in  something  less  than  the  fraction  of  a  minute.  She 
knew  Mr.  Buel  could  not  be  of  assistance  except  in  carry- 
ing out  plans  of  her  own  direction. 

"Do  you  remember  the  cafe  we  passed  ?"  she  asked,  her 
voice  controlled,  her  manner  calm. 

"Yes.     The  Anglais." 

"Drive  there." 

"But  Nell  .  .  ." 

"I  haven't  time  to  explain.  Only  listen  and  do  just  as  I 
say.  This  is  my  reputation,  and  if  it  must  be  lost,  let  me 
lose  it  in  my  own  way.  Take  a  table  inside  and  order  tea 
for  us  both." 

They  could  hear  the  splash  of  the  water  behind  distinctly. 

"You'll  do  that?" 

"Yes." 

They  turned  a  corner  perilously.  The  motor  halted.  Mr. 
Buel  was  out  on  the  pavement  and  had  assisted  Helena 
to  alight.  As  they  entered  the  cafe  the  other  car  turned 
the  corner.  The  young  Frenchman  saw  Buel,  pulled  up 
quickly,  his  car  skidding  and  then  applied  the  brake  with 
a  jolt.  A  second  later  he  had  leapt  to  the  pavement. 

The  cafe  they  entered  was  almost  deserted  and  a  number 
of  waiters  approached  them  solicitously.  Miss  Cass  turned 
to  the  maitre  d'hotel,  and  speaking  French,  asked  if  there 
was  a  room  where  a  lady  might  have  the  mud  stains 
removed  from  her  clothes. 

"Mais  certainement,  Madame,"  he  said,  leading  her  to 
the  rear  of  the  room.  He  opened  a  mirror  door,  and  Miss 


242       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Cass  thanked  him  and  entered.  As  the  man  returned  to 
Mr.  Buel,  the  young  Frenchman  had  already  followed  him 
in. "  Mr.  Buel  took  a  table  and  ordered  tea  for  two. 

His  companion  pulled  out  a  chair  from  the  next  table  and 
thrust  himself  into  it  with  determination.  He  ordered  an 
aperitif  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  For  some  time  the  two 
men  sat  glowering  at  each  other.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  the  young  Frenchman  held  the  trump  hand  and  was 
pleasantly  aware  of  it.  He  had  the  appearance  of  being  a 
perennial  bachelor,  one  of  those  men  who  by  remaining 
unattached  are  roughly  classed  by  hostesses  as  "young." 
But  the  Frenchman  had  been  considered  young  for  a 
good  many  years  now,  a  type  more  effective  in  America 
where  it  is  less  known  than  abroad. 

Mr.  Buel  was  unable  to  conceive  of  Helena's  plan  of 
action.  Even  though  she  kept  them  waiting  a  long  time, 
she  would  have  to  re-emerge  at  last.  It  was  futile  to  sup- 
pose that  their  neighbour  would  tire  of  waiting.  The  longer 
he  remained  the  keener  he  grew.  Or  did  Miss  Cass  sup- 
pose she  could  in  some  way  disguise  herself.  But  he  realised 
his  reasoning  became  childish. 

When  the  tea  was  served  he  altered  the  position  of  his 
chair  so  that  he  could  no  longer  face  the  man's  insolence. 
He  had  ordered  another  drink  and  he  heard  the  scratch 
of  a  match  for  a  fresh  cigarette.  Mr.  Buel  remained,  his 
nerves  on  a  hair  trigger.  What  could  she  be  planning?  He 
knew  his  evident  distress  must  call  forth  amusement  from 
the  next  table.  He  crossed  and  recrossed  his  legs,  shifted 
his  weight  on  the  small  insecure  chair.  He  took  out  his 
watch.  He  had  waited  fifteen  minutes.  With  his  eyes 
fastened  on  the  mirror  door  he  settled  himself  in  dread  to 
wait  her  reappearance. 


XXIX 

IT  was  after  midnight  when  the  south  express  drew  into 
Paris.  It  had  been  raining  steadily  for  hours  and  the 
windows  of  the  Sud-express  were  blurred  with  mist  and  run- 
nels of  water.  The  last  figure  to  alight  was  a  veiled  and 
manteled  silhouette  without  luggage,  who  cautiously  fol- 
lowed the  emburdened  passengers  from  the  shelter  of  the 
Gare  de  Lyon  to  the  street. 

As  a  succession  of  taxicabs  drove  up  she  entered  hers  in 
turn  and  instructed  the  chauffeur  to  drive  to  the  Grands 
Boulevards.  Then  she  drew  up  the  window  and  leaned 
back  in  the  dark.  Had  she  been  a  fugitive  from  justice, 
Miss  Cass  reflected,  her  position  could  not  have  been  more 
perilous.  She  relieved  the  past  hours  since  her  precipitate 
flight,  wondering  how  long  Jordan  Buel  had  waited  and  if 
ne  had  worried  when  her  absence  was  finally  discovered. 

Directly  Miss  Cass  had  entered  the  dressing-room  at 
Biarritz  she  had  adjusted  her  hat,  arranged  her  hair,  given 
the  attendant  a  generous  fee,  who  had  shown  her  the  rear 
door,  which  admitted  to  the  street.  Once  more  on  the 
pavement  she  had  entered  the  first  taxicab  and  been  driven 
to  the  station.  There  she  had  taken  a  train  to  Bayonne  and 
waited  for  the  Paris  express.  Before  leaving  she  had  pen- 
cilled a  note  to  her  mother,  telling  her  plans  and  dropped  it 
in  the  station  box.  Since  she  had  been  sighted  she  knew 
it  would  be  unsafe  for  her  to  remain  there  another  hour. 

She  had  placed  the  Frenchman  in  her  mind  now.  His 
name  was  Georges  Durand,  and  he  was  an  attache  at  the 
French  embassy  in  Washington.  He  had  been  an  acquaint- 
ance of  Vida  Newbolt's,  whom  she  had  liked  to  suggest 
had  to  be  kept  at  arm's  length.  This,  however,  had  not 
been  exactly  the  case.  According  to  the  continental  ap- 
praisement of  American  fortunes,  Miss  Newbolt's  father 

243 


244       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

was  not  a  "rich"  man  and  Monsieur  Durand's  attentions 
had  been  temperate  while  he  withheld  himself  for  a  higher 
bribe. 

Her  cab  continued  beside  the  Seine,  the  quai  deserted,  the 
water  below  black  but  for  occasional  flashes  of  red  and 
green,  and  the  clustered  lights  of  bridges  which  spanned 
the  noiseless  flow.  In  the  Place  de  la  Chatelet  there  was 
movement  and  as  they  joined  the  concourse  of  taxicabs  in 
Boulevard  Sebastopol  the  city  took  on  its  more  familiar 
aspect.  The  less  respected  element  of  Paris  was  to  be 
found  here  seated  at  little  tables  under  awnings,  while  on 
the  pavements  passed  and  repassed  an  army  of  raised  um- 
brellas. Her  chauffeur  dodged  through  unilluminated 
streets  to  regain  the  Boulevards.  They  passed  the  Opera, 
now  dark,  where  posters  announced  "Faust"  had  been  sung 
that  evening  and  she  bade  him  halt  in  front  of  the  Made- 
leine. It  was  an  odd  place  and  hour  for  a  young  woman 
alone  to  dismiss  a  taxicab.  The  driver  looked  at  her  with 
a  curious  distrust  as  she  asked  her  fare,  but  her  fluency 
and  decisiveness,  while  not  precisely  those  of  a  compatriot, 
decided  him  to  quote  the  correct  tariff. 

The  heavy  rain  had  now  lessened  to  the  slow  continuous 
drizzle  of  a  Paris  winter  and  Miss  Cass  made  her  way 
through  it  without  protest.  She  realised  she  had  several 
streets  to  traverse,  but  knowing  that  an  effort  might  be 
made  to  trace  her,  if  it  was  discovered  that  Paris  was  her 
objective,  she  did  not  wish  her  whereabouts  known  too  ac- 
curately. The  Place  de  la  Madeleine,  which  in  the  day- 
time sheltered  a  flower-market,  was  now  a  space  of  deserted 
stalls.  She  directed  her  steps  through  the  Rue  Trouchet, 
passed  Printemps  and  turned  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Cau- 
martin.  She  recalled  a  small  second-rate  family  hotel  whose 
prosperity  she  doubted  being  sufficient  to  reject  her.  She 
realised  that  arriving  at  the  average  hotel  unescorted  and 
without  luggage  she  would  be  refused  accommodation. 

At  the  office  she  explained  her  maid  and  luggage  had 
missed  the  train  and  would  overtake  her  in  the  morning. 
She  smiled  with  a  certain  serenity  when  shown  to  modest 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       245 

but  not  comfortless  rooms.  Her  facility  in  improving  on 
the  truth  was  becoming  sufficiently  apt  to  be  Gallic  in  qual- 
ity. Cold  chicken,  a  salad,  bread,  a  bottle  of  red  wine  and 
a  Camembert  cheese  were  sent  up  to  her.  She  dined,  re- 
moved her  wet  clothes  and  retired. 

The  next  evening  while  out  she  telephoned  the  Crillon 
and  discovered  Mrs.  Dion  Tilden  had  arrived  less  than  an 
hour  before.  The  following  day,  dressed  in  different  clothes 
which  her  mother  had  brought  her,  she  paid  her  bill  and 
removed  to  join  Mrs.  Tilden.  Mr.  Buel  and  Roscoe  came 
several  days  later  and  installed  themselves  at  the  Meurice. 
And  so  the  immediate  results  of  her  indiscretion  were 
evaded.  .  .  . 

One  day  after  an  afternoon  spent  in  motoring  to  St. 
Cloud,  Helena  and  Mr.  Buel  returned  through  the  Bois, 
The  rain  which  had  ceased  for  two  hours  recommenced 
with  vigour.  They  passed  open-air  restaurants  now  closed, 
where  it  beat  dolefully  on  overturned  tables  and  rusted  iron 
chairs. 

"Small  wonder,"  Mr.  Buel  observed,  "that  no  one  ever 
winters  in  Paris." 

Miss  Cass  had,  for  the  most  part,  remained  silent  during 
the  ride,  but  her  fiance  was  sufficiently  sympathetic  not  to 
expect  entire  reasonableness  from  her  at  the  present  time 
and  gave  scant  attention  to  her  mood.  As  they  joined  the 
Champs  Elysees  she  was  attracted  by  kiosks  of  gaudy 
posters  announcing  a  series  of  concerts. 

"I  should  love  to  go,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  crave  music. 
Will  you  try  to  get  seats  ?" 

"You  must  have  taken  leave  of  your  senses,"  he  an- 
swered with  some  abruptness.  "How  can  you  go?  Even 
our  rides  are  more  or  less  of  a  risk." 

She  made  no  protest,  but  that  evening  Mrs.  Cass  led  him 
aside. 

"Men  don't  understand  women,"  she  said  naively.  "I 
know  you  would  give  Helena  everything  that  seemed  best 
for  her.  But  I  feel  we  must  go  further  than  that  and  in- 
dulge her.  She  has  had  a  terrible  experience  and  we  must 


246       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

help  her  to  forget  it.  I  am  speaking  in  the  interest  of  the 
child  as  much  as  for  Helena  herself.  Her  craving  for 
music  is  unfortunate  at  this  moment,  but  I  feel  it  should  be 
gratified.  Why  not  get  seats  for  the  L'Amoureux  for  Sun- 
day week?  There  are  always  subscriptions  returned,  and 
you  could  go  early,  occupy  a  box,  sit  back  in  the  shadow, 
for  the  lights  are  lowered  throughout  the  concert,  and 
be  among  the  last  to  leave.  Helena  can  be  veiled  coming 
out." 

"Of  course  if  she  wishes  it  as  much  as  that  ..." 

"She  does." 

"Then  it  is  settled." 

The  next  afternoon,  while  not  fine,  was  the  first  day  in 
weeks  in  which  there  had  been  no  rainfall.  They  motored 
out  to  Passy  and  on  their  return  Mr.  Buel  drew  the  car  up 
in  the  Rue  La  Boetie.  Across  the  street  were  long  lines 
of  waiting  cars  and  fraternising  chauffeurs  and  footmen. 
The  Sunday  concert  was  in  progress  and  Miss  Cass  re- 
mained veiled  in  the  car,  listening  to  the  fortissimo  of  the 
great  orchestra  which  could  be  heard  through  closed  doors. 
There  were  several  persons  before  him  at  the  bureau  de 
location  and  Mr.  Buel  took  his  place  and  waited  his  turn. 

Without,  in  the  chill  grey  afternoon,  few  people  passed. 
Miss  Cass  was  not  impatient.  There  came  a  final  crash  of 
sound  of  an  immense  crescendo,  followed  by  a  storm  of 
applause.  At  that  moment  a  man  and  woman  left  the  con- 
cert rooms  and  descended  the  stairs  to  the  street.  Mr. 
Buel  was  just  behind  them.  He  waved  the  tickets  above 
his  head  that  she  might  see  he  had  been  successful. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  called  out.  "We're  in  luck.  I  got  a 
loge  for  next  Sunday.  It  had  just  been  returned." 

As  he  spoke  the  lady  turned  as  though  hearing  a  familiar 
tongue. 

"Why,  it's  Mr.  Buel,"  she  exclaimed. 

He  saw  too  late  that  he  had  been  recognised  by  Madame 
de  Lanel  and  her  husband.  They  had  apparently  wearied 
of  the  concert  and  had  left  early  to  reach  their  car  before 
the  rush  of  the  vast  audience  was  disgorged.  Madame  de 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       247 

Lanel  was  looking  very  attractive  in  her  somewhat  artificial 
way,  dressed  in  black  miroir  velvet  to  enhance  her  fairness, 
a  heavy  scarf  of  pointed  fox  slipping  from  her  shoulders 
and  a  muff  tucked  under  her  arm.  On  her  bosom  had  been 
fastened  a  spray  of  green  and  brown  orchids.  The  Mar- 
quis looked  less  well  than  when  Mr.  Buel  had  last  seen 
him. 

"Surely  you  haven't  forgotten  me,  Mr.  Buel?"  she  said. 
"I  am  Madame  de  Lanel.  Don't  you  remember  the  picnic 
you  had  a  year  ago  in  Brittany  when  poor  Helena  was 
my  guest?  ...  I  so  often  think  of  her." 

She  spoke  with  excitement  and  her  natural  proprietary 
air  which  she  adopted  toward  all  men.  She  was  conscious 
of  her  effectiveness  and  of  something  more.  Madame  de 
Lanel's  discovery  was  causing  Mr.  Buel  embarrassment 
entirely  out  of  keeping  with  the  circumstances,  which  urged 
her  to  go  further. 

"I  read  in  the  New  York  Herald  that  Nell  was  seen  the 
other  day  in  Biarritz.  Do  you  place  any  credit  in  that?" 

Mr.  Buel  ignored  her  address  through  sheer  bewilder- 
ment. Not  knowing  how  to  receive  it,  he  said  nothing. 
He  now  returned  her  gaze,  remarking  blankly : 

"I  am  sorry,  madame,  but  you've  made  a  mistake." 

He  took  his  motor-mask  from  his  pocket  and  yet  hesi- 
tated to  put  it  on,  fearing  that  if  he  entered  the  car  this 
action  would  focus  her  attention  upon  its  present  occu- 
pant. But  Madame  de  Lanel  was  a  creature  of  keen  infer- 
ence. As  he  remained  irresolute  before  the  car,  she  came 
closer  and  looked  at  the  veiled  figure.  The  Marquis  had 
held  out  a  detaining  hand,  urging  her  to  leave. 

"Bebe,  je  If  en  pris,"  was  all  he  said. 

"It's  Nell,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  thought  as  much.  Tris- 
tram— this  is  Helena  Cass  in  the  car.  This  man  has  hidden 
her.  Don't  let  him  leave."  She  called  her  own  chauffeur. 
"Henri.  .  .  .  Henri.  .  .  .  Call  a  gendarme  .  .  .  vite  .  .  . 
vite.  ..." 

But  in  that  moment  Mr.  Buel  had  put  on  his  mask,  en- 
tered his  car  and  they  were  in  motion.  He  increased  the 


248       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

speed  and  before  Madame  de  Lanel  had  explained  the  sit- 
uation they  had  turned  the  corner. 

He  drove  the  car  straight  to  the  Hotel  du  Crillon 
without  once  opening  his  mouth.  Miss  Cass  ascended 
to  her  sitting-room.  Her  mother  had  drawn  an  easy  chair 
before  a  coal  fire  which  burned  in  the  grate  and  looked  up 
from  a  book  at  her  entrance.  As  Helena  removed  her  veil 
she  scented  disaster.  Mr.  Buel  strode  over  to  the  chimney 
piece,  tore  the  tickets  in  two  and  threw  them  into  the 
fire. 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Madame  de  Lanel  has  just  seen  us  and  recognised  us 
both." 

"Where?" 

"In  front  of  the  Gaveau." 

"What  is  Helena  going  to  do  ?" 

"'You  will  have  to  ask  her." 

Miss  Cass  had  gone  directly  to  her  own  room  and  her 
mother  did  not  follow  her  at  once,  realising  she  had  no 
immediate  comfort  to  offer.  Instead  she  asked  her  ques- 
tions of  Mr.  Buel,  knowing  her  daughter  was  in  no  mood 
to  satisfy  them.  This  was  only  one,  she  realised,  of  a  series 
of  persecutions  which  would  follow  every  time  she  ap- 
peared in  public.  She  attempted  to  overcome  any  such  sub- 
conscious promptings  but  she  had  always  been  doubtful  of 
the  future,  and  now  it  seemed  more  than  ever  dubious. 

She  looked  at  Mr.  Buel.  He  was  standing  across  the 
room  from  her  chewing  a  cigarette  he  had  forgotten  to 
light,  his  hands  thrust  viciously  into  his  trousers'  pockets. 

"Have  you  any  plan?" 

"Plan?" 

He  repeated  the  word  as  though  suspicious  that  the  ques- 
tion contained  elements  of  chaff.  That  was  his  only  an- 
swer, and  she  realised  at  once  that  he  would  not  be  helpful. 
She  was  still  attempting  to  regulate  her  thoughts  when  Miss 
Cass  opened  the  connecting  door  and  re-entered.  She  had 
changed  even  to  the  details  of  shoes  and  gloves  and  "car- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       249 

ried  a  handbag,  which  she  deposited  on  the  sofa.  They  both 
watched  her  in  speechless  concern. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Mrs.  Cass  asked  at  length,  as 
Helena  protruded  her  lips  as  a  part  of  the  process  of  tying 
her  veil  while  looking  into  the  mirror  above  the  chimney 
piece. 

"I  don't  know  yet.  Please  telephone  down  to  the  office 
for  time-tables  for  the  Midi." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  having  studied  one,  she  rose 
decisively.  She  had  apparently  taken  stock  of  what  had 
happened  and  already  knew  the  step  to  which  she  was 
committed. 

"Jordan,  I  want  you  to  motor  me  to  Tours." 

"As  you  say." 

"When  are  you  going,  dear?" 

Mrs.  Cass's  eyes  followed  the  small  handbag  which  her 
daughter  had  reclaimed. 

"Now.  This  is  good-bye.  I've  left  my  jewellery  and 
taken  some  of  your  money.  I  reach  Tours  to-night  and 
take  the  midnight  train  on  to  Spain." 

"But  where  are  you  going?" 

"Back  to  the  convent.  It  is  the  only  place  for  me  until 
after  baby  is  born.  They  are  Christian  women.  They 
will  take  me  in.  And  when  I  am  safe  there  you  must  all  go 
back  to  America.  It  will  help  to  attract  attention  away 
from  me.  I  am  leaving  now  because  to-morrow  would  be 
too  late.  There  will  be  headlines  in  the  Herald  then  and  a 
description.  I  know  Edith.  She  is  not  far  from  guessing 
the  truth." 

Mrs.  Cass  took  her  silently  and  tenderly  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  mumsy,  if  I  were  only  dead.  ..." 

"Helena!" 

"I'm  sorry.  There  are  you  and  Jordan  and  baby  to  live 
for." 

"Everything  is  going  to  come  out  all  right." 

"I  suppose  so.  But  that  optimism  that  is  based  largely 
upon  misfortune  bores  me  rather." 


250       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

They  were  her  last  words  as  she  blew  her  mother  a  kiss 
before  leaving  the  hotel. 

Neither  Buel  nor  Miss  Cass  cared  to  talk.  He  sat  silent, 
both  hands  on  the  wheel,  his  eyes  watching  the  road  ahead. 
As  they  approached  villages  they  slackened  their  pace 
slightly,  and  then  passing  them  increased  it  that  no  time 
should  be  lost.  The  floor  under  his  feet  grew  warm,  and 
the  throb  of  the  motor  made  him  feel  they  were  pressed 
against  a  living  heart.  A  mechanism  that  cared  was  help- 
ing him,  doing  its  utmost.  Helena  sat  dumb  at  his  side, 
her  hands  clasped  together.  Her  eyes  were  fastened  on  the 
tattered  fragments  of  a  sunset  illumined  by  a  momentary 
clearing.  Then  the  darkness  came  down  between  them 
and  only  a  broad  fan  of  light  lay  ahead  like  a  magnify- 
ing glass  examining  details  of  the  road  before  it  passed 
under  them. 

Once  at  a  village  they  halted  while  Mr.  Buel  entered  a 
cafe.  He  ordered  wine  and  sandwiches  and  returned  with 
them  to  the  car.  They  were  still  being  propelled  madly 
through  the  darkness  while  she  ate.  She  could  see  the  small, 
illuminated  clock  beside  the  speedometre  at  her  feet  and 
realised  it  would  be  a  race  to  make  the  train.  She  offered 
to  drive  while  Mr.  Buel  ate.  He  refused  the  suggestion 
curtly.  At  length  they  drew  into  the  outskirts  of  Tours 
and  she  opened  the  map,  directing  him,  that  he  need  ask  no 
questions  and  so  they  slackened  and  drew  up  at  the  sta- 
tion. 

There  were  few  persons  there.  In  the  outer  darkness 
they  kissed  and  said  brief  good-byes.  Life  seemed  very 
experimental  to  them  both  at  that  moment  and  they  knew 
they  were  threatened  by  its  impermanence.  Miss  Cass 
entered  the  lighted  waiting-room  and  he  remained  at  a 
distance  in  his  car  in  the  outer  darkness  to  see  her  safely 
aboard.  Ten  minutes  later  the  express  thundered  in.  He 
saw  her  make  her  way  to  the  first-class  carriages,  saw  her 
ascend  the  step,  turn  and  flutter  a  handkerchief.  A  tight- 
ness came  into  his  throat  and  he  drove  his  motor-car  reck- 
lessly back  to  avoid  watching  the  train  disappear. 


XXX 

AFTER  Madame  de  Lanel  had  finished  telling  of  her  ex- 
perience, Jay  Sefton  returned  to  his  hotel  and  sat  by  the 
open  window  of  his  room  in  the  spring  dusk.  He  thought 
over  each  detail,  clothing  it  in  likelihood.  He  put  aside 
the  Marquis's  doubts  of  Miss  Cass's  identity.  He  was 
assured  that  Buel's  companion  could  be  no  other.  He 
agreed  with  Madame  de  Lanel  that  she  must  have  left 
Paris  immediately  before  the  morning  papers  had  published 
her  statement. 

No  means  of  escape  was  more  likely  than  that  Buel  had 
motored  her  out  of  town.  Tours  was  the  farthest  point 
they  could  make  and  still  catch  the  Rapide  that  night.  For, 
of  course,  she  had  returned  to  Spain  and  the  convent  since 
it  was  the  only  refuge  where  shelter  was  assured. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  realised  there  was  still  a  chance 
that  he  could  make  the  train,  packed  his  bag,  paid  his  bill, 
and  was  driven  recklessly  to  the  Quai  d'Orsay.  He  man- 
aged to  obtain  a  reservation  on  the  Rapide,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  the  lights  of  Paris  were  shifting  by.  The 
great  Tower  Eiffel,  bestriding  the  city  like  the  Colossus  of 
Rhodes,  was  gone.  A  couple  of  rockets  pierced  the  haze 
sent  up  from  the  arrondissement  of  Boulevard  de  Clichy, 
where  a  street  fair  was  in  progress.  That  night  he  lay  in 
his  berth,  placed  transversely  across  the  width  of  the  train 
in  order  to  receive  a  maximum  of  movement,  and  thought 
and  thought. 

He  found  innumerable  changes  in  Trinidad,  which  had 
occurred  during  the  few  weeks  he  had  been  away.  Spring, 
which  was  only  sketcfcily  suggested  in  Paris,  had  arrived 
in  Spain.  The  air  was  warm,  the  gardens  filled  with  sweet 
basil,  the  hillside  heavy  with  the  scent  of  spikenard,  varied 
with  the  more  modest  white  and  mauve  cistus  and  groves 

251 


252       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

of  wild  iris.  He  was  welcomed  back  by  his  host  of  the 
inn  as  an  old  friend.  Directly  following  his  lunch,  Sefton 
walked  from  the  village  along  the  grass  road  that  led  to 
the  convent.  He  would  make  no  further  appeal  to  Hipolito. 
What  he  had  to  say  now  Would  be  addressed  to  the  Prior- 
ess herself. 

He  had  not  attempted  to  put  his  thoughts  in  order  as  he 
approached  the  austere  building  that  crowned  the  hill.  He 
rang  the  bell  beside  the  green  door,  and  while  he  waited 
he  could  hear  its  ring  die  away  in  the  sepulchral  silence — 
august,  ageless.  The  scent  of  the  lime  trees  reached  him 
from  the  convent  garden  and  feelings  tumultous,  inchoate, 
struggled  within.  Did  this  building  shelter  her,  or  had  she 
died  and  been  laid  to  rest  among  the  mounds  without, 
which  held  more  of  the  sisters  than  were  at  present  alive.  .  . 

After  a  moment  Sefton  heard  a  shambling  footstep,  then 
a  slide  in  the  door  was  pushed  aside  and  one  eye  appeared 
in  the  opening,  dark,  sexless,  inscrutable.  It  looked  at  him 
through  a  steel-rimmed  spectacle. 

"I  wish  to  see  the  prioress,"  he  said. 

"That  is  not  possible,  senor.  The  reverend  mother  does 
not  see  strangers  from  the  world." 

"She  will  see  me  if  you  wrill  explain  my  errand.  I  have 
come  from  America  to  see  a  young  woman  who  is  an  in- 
mate here." 

"The  reverend  mother  never  sees  anyone,"  she  repeated, 
as  though  it  were  an  expression  committed  by  rote. 

"Will  you  deliver  my  message?" 

She  agreed,  the  slide  closed  and  she  was  gone. 

He  waited  ten  minutes  and  still  the  portress  did  not 
return.  Below  in  the  road  he  could  see  a  yoke  of  white 
oxen  being  led  along  by  a  waggoner.  They  were  harnessed 
to  a  carreta  filled  with  manure  and  were  on  their  way  to 
enrich  the  fields.  Occasionally  he  could  hear  the  man's 
voice  calling  to  them,  even  at  that  distance.  For  a  moment 
he  was  forgetful  of  this  errand  in  the  peace  of  the  country- 
side when  the  door  was  unlatched  behind  him. 

The  portress  opened  the  door,  and  he  saw  a  woman  hid- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       253 

den  in  the  heavy  folds  of  her  white  clothing,  a  black  veil 
covering  her  face  fell  to  her  knees,  so  that  her  features 
were  unseen.  She  led  him  across  a  passage  that  smelled 
of  cleanliness,  the  administrations  of  soap  and  gathered  lav- 
ender that  had  dried.  She  opened  the  door  to  the  visitors' 
parlour  and  mutely  bade  him  enter.  The  room  was  bare 
except  for  two  straight  chairs,  an  arm-chair,  a  table  on 
which  were  crossed  a  Bible  and  what  he  suspected  was  a 
visitors'-book.  Above  it  on  a  bracket  was  a  plaster  image 
of  the  Virgin.  Besides  this  the  room  had  no  furnishing. 
A  window  looked  into  the  garden,  but  any  view  was  hid- 
den by  a  hedge  of  freshly  clipped  myrtle. 

Sefton  seated  himself,  for  the  first  time  aware  of  worldly 
boots  under  gaiters  and  expensive,  well-made  knickerbock- 
ers. The  Carlsbad  hat  he  held  in  his  hand  seemed  as  out 
of  place  in  these  holy  surroundings  as  would  his  own  to- 
bacco-scented appearence  be  in  heaven.  He  crossed  his 
legs  uneasily,  leaning  back  in  the  small,  insecure  chair.  He 
had  left  the  arm-chair  unoccupied  for  the  prioress.  Several 
moments  later  a  member  of  the  order  entered,  large,  pow- 
erful, unwieldy  in  her  robes  and  veiled  like  the  portress. 
He  knew  instinctively  that  she  was  not  the  superior  of  the 
order,  but  rose  though  she  made  a  gesture  for  him  to  retain 
his  seat.  When  she  spoke  her  voice  was  high,  unmelodious, 
unlike  the  speaking  voice  of  the  average  Spanish  woman. 

"I  have  the  honor  of  speaking  to  the  prioress?"  he  asked. 

"No,  senor.  You  are  evidently  not  of  the  faith,  or  you 
would  know  that  no  man  except  a  prince  of  the  house  of 
Asturias  is  allowed  that  privilege.  I  will  see  you  in  the 
place  of  the  Mother  Espiritu.  What  is  it  that  brings  you 
to  the  order?" 

As  she  asked  her  question,  he  heard  a  click  in  the  wall 
behind  him,  and  he  realised  that,  although  concealed, 
Mother  Espiritu  was  evidently  listening  to  their  conversa- 
tion. 

"What  was  the  name  of  the  young  woman  that  you 
wished  to  speak  to  the  reverend  mother  about?" 

"Helena  Cass.    I  know  that  she  came  here  several  years 


254       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

ago,  that  she  left  for  Paris  with  her  mother  and  fiance  and 
later  returned.  You  don't  deny  that  she  is  here,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  deny  anything?" 

"May  I  accept  that,  then,  as  an  admission  that  she  is 
here?" 

"Neither  do  I  admit  anything.  The  order  is  a  contem- 
plative one.  A  secret  spoken  here  is  never  repeated." 

These  words  were  uttered  with  a  lifelessness  that  was 
inflexible.  Were  all  his  clues  to  end  here?  Would  there 
be  no  word  vouchsafed  him  that  would  pierce  her  armour? 
In  the  last  few  hours  he  had  so  encouraged  the  belief  she 
was  alive  that  the  sister's  words  produce  a  malign  reflex. 
He  looked  at  her  large,  capable  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 
The  sweat  came  to  his  brow.  He  felt  a  sudden  stringency 
about  his  heart. 

"She's  not  dead?"  he  asked. 

"I  cannot  tell  you." 

"You  must,  mother;  you  must!" 

"You  haven't  told  me  who  you  are." 

"My  name  is  Sefton.  I'm  a  friend  of  Miss  Cass.  I 
love  her,  but  I  am  not  her  fiance.  Anything  you  tell  me 
will  be  as  safe  with  me  as  with  you.  I  shall  never  repeat 
a  word  of  it.  If  she  has  become  a  member  of  the  order 
and  has  forsworn  the  world,  I'll  go  away  and  no  one  will 
know  it.  Only  she  wouldn't  do  that.  If  for  any  reason 
she  does  not  wish  to  see  me  I  won't  press  it.  I  am  think- 
ing only  of  her  good.  If  my  being  here  distresses  her,  you 
have  only  to  bring  me  that  message  and  I  shall  not  come 
back." 

"Who  sent  you  here?" 

"No  one ;  I  have  been  searching  for  months.  In  spite  of 
the  greatest  difficulties  and  weeks  of  discouragement,  I  have 
been  able  to  trace  her  to  this  convent.  I  have  come  here 
only  because  I  couldn't  rest  until  I  found  her.  Now,  won't 
you  tell  me  what  you  know?" 

For  a  moment  the  vigorous  veiled  figure  remained  mo- 
tionless. Then  extending  a  hand  out  of  her  loose  sleeve, 
she  rang  a  silver  bell.  The  portress  appeared  in  the  door- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       255 

way  and  the  sister  gave  her  an  imperious  sign,  without  once 
opening  her  lips,  and  she  went  away.  Only  the  sound  of 
her  rosary  at  her  side  and  her  sandals  on  the  stone  floor 
were  audible  in  surroundings  which  had  imprisoned  vari- 
ous degrees  of  silence  now  centuries  old. 

They  were  evidently  waiting  for  the  reverend  mother's 
reply.  The  minutes  were  full  of  portent. 

He  did  not  turn  in  his  chair,  nor  recross  his  thighs, 
though  his  leg  was  full  of  tingles,  his  foot  having  gone 
asleep.  The  blood  was  thumping  in  his  head.  The  sister 
seated  across  the  room  from  him  in  the  arm-chair  remained 
like  some  graven  image ;  he  could  hear  the  partial  articula- 
tion of  her  lips  repeating  her  lesson.  There  came  a  click 
in  the  wall  behind  him  and  he  knew  the  prioress  had  closed 
her  means  of  communication  with  the  visitors'  parlour. 

A  moment  later  the  portress  returned,  gave  a  sign  to 
the  sister,  who  maintained  silence  until  the  other  had  with- 
drawn. Then  she  said: 

"The  reverend  mother  thinks  it  advisable  for  you  to 
know  the  truth." 


XXXI 

THE  portress  looked  at  Miss  Cass  blindly  with  her  weak, 
near-sighted  eyes.  Visitors  were  rare  experiences  at  the 
convent.  The  bell  ringing  in  her  lodge  long  after  dusk 
was  in  itself  sufficiently  unusual  to  send  Sister  Natividad's 
heart  up  into  her  throat.  But  Helena's  appearing  from 
nowhere  at  that  hour  of  the  night  and  unaccompanied  was 
almost  past  belief. 

Helena  had  always  possessed  a  dangerous  and  exotic 
quality  which,  to  the  timid,  inexperienced  sister,  eluded 
classification.  She  had  forgotten  to  adjust  her  steel-rimmed 
spectacles  and  so  blinked  owl-fashion  at  the  intruder,  who 
now  entered  uninvited.  After  closing  and  securely  bolting 
the  door,  she  removed  her  spectacles  from  her  forehead 
and  placed  them  astride  her  nose,  peering  inquisitively 
through  them.  Helena  felt  a  perverse  and  wilful  desire 
to  cry  "hoot,  hoot!"  to  the  myopic  portress. 

"It's  only  I,  Sister  Natividad,"  she  reassured  her,  ex- 
tending her  hand  pleasantly. 

Her  gesture  possessed  the  ease  of  one  not  readily  put 
out  and  a  not  unstudied  assurance.  But  Sister  Natividad, 
never  garrulous,  remained  fluttering  and  inarticulate,  with- 
out social  graces,  while  she  watched  her  with  uncouth 
curiosity. 

The  young  woman  saw  that  the  portress  had  given  a  sus- 
picious glance  to  the  Paris  mantle,  which  hung  from  her 
shoulders,  artfully  shapeless  yet  shrouding,  which  covered 
while  it  did  not  define  her.  Every  worldly  angle  of  the 
hat  she  wore  attested  to  Rue  de  la  Paix;  its  decoration 
was  now  partially  hidden  by  her  veil  as  she  threw  it  back 
to  show  her  pale,  determined  features.  A  scent  totally 
unknown  to  the  convent,  delicate  but  disquieting,  enveloped 
her. 

256 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       257 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me,  Sister  Natividad,  aren't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

It  was  the  portress's  uncompromising  reply. 

"I  hope  you're  not  sorry  I've  come  back.  May  I  see 
the  Reverend  Mother?  And  will  you  tell  her  it  is  very 
important  to  me  to  see  her?" 

The  sister  watched  her  a  moment  unwaveringly.  Miss 
Cass  remained  silent,  her  manner  charged  with  a  certain 
authority.  Something  in  the  poise  of  her  head  and  the 
repose  of  her  clasped  hands  conveyed  in  substance  that 
she  was  accustomed  to  being  obeyed.  Sister  Natividad, 
inured  to  submission,  turned  and  disappeared  down  the 
corridor,  her  sandals  shuffling  away  to  the  Prioress's  sit- 
ting-room. 

She  was  not  one  of  the  "cerebrals"  of  the  order,  Helena 
made  inward  comment.  She  wondered  what  Mother  Es- 
piritu  would  say  when  told  of  her  return.  She  could  not 
imagine  the  form  of  words  with  which  the  portress  would 
clothe  her  advent. 

There  was  no  chair  in  the  corridor,  so  that  Miss  Cass 
perforce  remained  standing.  An  insufficient  light  fell  about 
her  from  the  small  overhead  lantern.  Minutes  passed  and 
Sister  Natividad  did  not  return.  At  first  it  occurred  to  her 
that  the  Prioress  might  be  occupied  with  her  accounts  or 
checking  bills.  Then  as  the  time  extended  she  supposed 
it  was  the  hour  of  Vespers,  in  which  case  the  entire  con- 
vent was  in  chapel  and  Mother  Espiritu  was  on  her  knees 
in  her  stall  and  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Miss  Cass  consulted  her  watch.  It  lacked  a  few  minutes 
of  nine  o'clock.  At  nine  the  bell  rang  and  the  last  light  was 
extinguished.  Her  fears  had  suddenly  increased  and  all 
her  appearance  of  capability  and  well-bred  aloofness  could 
not  cloak  a  naked  dread.  She  was  desperate;  in  their 
hands.  She  was  begging  asylum  after  the  manner  of  a 
street  waif,  and  like  one  she  was  being  refused.  She 
attempted  to  steady  herself  against  the  blow. 

She  had  decided  to  make  use  of  falsehood,  if  necessary, 


258       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

to  insure  her  entrance.  Just  what  falsehood  she  did  not 
know.  Suppose  Mother  Espiritu  refused  to  enter  into 
any  discussion  and  declined  to  see  her.  What  then?  Or 
if  she  saw  her  and  rejected  her  plea,  what  could  she  say  to 
shake  her  opposition  ? 

'  She  knew  without  a  strong  case  it  was  hopeless.  But 
before  she  had  decided  upon  what  appeal  to  hang  her  peti- 
tion the  portress  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  alone. 
As  she  returned  Miss  Cass  realised  her  failure  and  that 
she  was  about  to  be  ejected. 

"The  Reverend  Mother  will  see  you  in  her  sitting- 
room." 

:.  She  followed  the  round,  bulbous  sister,  mounted  two  steps 
and  entered  the  Prioress's  room.  No  effort  had  been  made 
to  evolve  comfort  The  walls  were  bare,  distempered  like 
those  of  the  refectory.  A  writing-table  stood  before  the 
windows  with  a  small  dark-shaded  lamp.  It  was  furnished 
with  an  ink-horn,  a  pot  of  coloured  sand  and  a  quill.  In 
a  corner  were  canary  and  parrot  cages,  both  covered  with 
flannel  for  the  night  as  a  caution  against  drafts  and  to  in- 
sure silence.  A  niche  in  the  wall  upheld  a  statue  in  coloured 
plaster  of  the  Virgin  with  upraised  eyes  and  a  glowing 
heart  projected  through  her  garments.  Between  the  doors, 
the  one  by  which  they  had  entered  and  that  admitting  to 
the  convent  parlour,  was  a  large  crucifix  of  ivory,  the 
crown  of  thorns  and  loin-cloth  of  bronze. 

Mother  Espiritu  was  seated  at  her  writing-table  looking 
precisely  as  she  had  when  Miss  Cass  had  gone  away.  In 
one  hand  she  held  her  open  breviary.  She  looked  up  upon 
Helena's  entrance,  but  she  did  not  rise.  Her  eyes  as  she 
exchanged  a  glance  with  the  visitor  were  not  easy  to 
meet.  Her  face,  at  all  times  strangely  impersonal,  mask- 
like,  did  not  betray  a  trace  of  recognition,  although  her 
words  acknowledged  the  other's  identity. 

"It  is  the  Senorita.  Sister  Natividad  says  you  asked  to 
see  me." 

"Yes,  Mother." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  while  the  applicant  rallied 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       259 

her  forces  of  attack.  There  was  nothing  selfless  or  effaced 
in  the  personality  of  the  Prioress.  She  was  dominant, 
strong-willed ;  a  woman  constructed  entirely  of  steel  with  a 
thin  overlay  of  flesh,  like  some  priceless  porcelain  from 
China,  the  secret  of  whose  composition  had  long  since  been 
lost.  A  pale  incandescence  shone  through  her  flesh.  Her 
eyes  were  indocile  yet  as  all-seeing  as  those  of  the  recording 
angel.  She  was  beautiful  in  an  august,  ageless  and  terrible 
way.  The  surrounding  whiteness  of  her  scapular  with 
onlf  Jie  relief  of  her  black  veil  made  her  seem  the  less 
huniAfl.  And  her  complete  suspension  of  the  animate  made 
one  doubt  if  her  eyes  could  have  attachment  to  bodily  wants 
or  suffering.  The  extraordinary  power  to  benumb  ren- 
dered Miss  Cass  silent  for  several  minutes. 

"What  is  it?" 

"May  I  see  you  alone?" 

The  portress  had  remained  just  inside  the  door  as  though 
in  readiness  to  conduct  Miss  Cass,  at  a  moment's  notice, 
into  the  outer  darkness.  Now  at  a  sign  from  Mother 
Espiritu  she  withdrew. 

"I  have  come  to  see  if  I  might  enter  the  convent?'* 

"You  mean  .   .   .  become  a  nun?" 

"Yes,  Mother." 

"It's  a  pity  you  didn't  put  your  request  into  writing.  It 
would  have  saved  you  a  useless  trip." 

"You  are  not  going  to  refuse  me?" 

"You  are  not  of  the  faith,  sefiorita.  And  there  are  other 
reasons  why  you  are  particularly  unfitted." 

Miss  Cass  did  not  avoid  the  Prioress's  eyes. 

"What  reasons?"  she  asked. 

"Your  prospective  motherhood." 

"Surely  a  child  would  not  be  in  the  way  for  the  first 
months.  When  old  enough  to  be  taken  from  me  he  shall 
be  sent  to  my  mother.  Then  I  can  be  free  to  enter  upon 
the  term  of  my  postulancy,  and  later  become  a  novice  and 
still  later  a  member  of  the  order." 

"If  your  resolution  has  not  changed  a  year  from  now, 
when  your  child  can  be  separated  from  you,  return  to  me 


26o       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

and  you  will  be  admitted  as  a  postulant.  At  present  it's 
impossible." 

"Don't  turn  me  away,  Mother." 

There  was  fear  in  her  voice. 

"What  has  suddenly  attracted  your  attention  toward 
religion  ?" 

"The  time  spent  here.  It  was  very  peaceful.  I  didn't 
suppose  that  in  all  the  world  there  was  so  peaceful  a  life." 

"I'm  afraid  that  isn't  religion.  You're  impulsive.  You've 
been  unhappy." 

"What  difference  does  the  impulse  make,  Reverend 
Mother,  provided  it  leads  me  to  the  same  goal?" 

Twenty  minutes  later  when  Miss  Cass  left  Mother  Es- 
piritu's  sitting-room  she  had  received  partial  consent  to 
have  the  shelter  of  the  convent  for  a  time  at  teast.  She 
could  not  remember  what  arguments  she  had  made  use  of 
to  convince  the  Prioress  of  her  fitness.  She  only  realised 
she  had  gained  her  point,  and  a  feeling  of  peace  and  safety 
flooded  her  with  a  reminder  of  her  unworthiness  that  was 
not  far  removed  from  religious  exultation. 

Mother  Espiritu  was  at  all  times  decisive,  without 
irresolution.  The  order  of  the  Sisters  of  the  Adoration 
was  contemplative,  not  active.  They  had  at  no  time 
opened  their  gates  as  a  retreat  for  the  worldly  wishing 
temporary  solace  from  the  world.  Nor  was  theirs  a  school 
for  the  instruction  of  the  laity.  Since  they  had  accepted 
a  young  woman  ill  and  indigent  several  months  before, 
there  seemed  little  reason  to  refuse  her  now  that  she  was 
in  health  and  unimpoverished.  It  was  not  a  matter  about 
which  to  communicate  to  the  Mother  General  of  the  Mother 
House  the  Prioress  decided,  although  the  act  was  contrary 
to  anything  she  had  done  before.  She  undertook  the  entire 
responsibility  of  the  additional  soul  under  her  roof.  The 
sisters  would  not  be  contaminated  by  her  presence  nor  un- 
settled at  their  devotions.  While  it  could  be  put  to  vote 
at  the  next  chapter,  it  was  an  unwritten  law  that  no  prefer- 
ence of  Mother  Espiritu's  was  ever  voted  against. 

The  portress  was  summoned  and  given  her  instructions. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       261 

A  moment  later  she  returned  with  Sister  Amparo.  The 
latter,  a  detached  and  communicative  spirit,  was  filled  with 
only  a  half-concealed  excitement.  She  carried  Miss  Cass's 
dressing-bag  and  led  her  upstairs  to  her  cell.  This  was  in 
a  new  wing  of  the  convent,  disconnected  from  the  rest 
and  above  the  infirmary.  Here  the  returned  visitor  was 
removed  from  the  novices,  who  were  to  remain  ignorant 
of  her  presence  and  without  speculation  on  her  condition. 
It  was  an  audacious  step  to  take,  but  Mother  Espiritu 
had  the  rank  of  a  grandee  of  Spain  and  had  she  not  been  a 
Prioress  she  would  probably  have  been  a  statesman.  Her 
decisions,  if  at  any  time  strange,  were  never  reproved  and 
rarely  regretted. 

As  Sister  Amparo  set  down  her  candle  on  the  little  wash- 
stand  she  looked  admiringly  at  Miss  Cass's  clothes,  and 
asked  where  she  had  been.  Did  she  really  wish  to  become  a 
nun?  Did  she  feel  she  had  a  vocation?  And  how  had  it 
made  itself  felt?  Had  God  spoken  to  her?  Had  she  been 
conscious  of  a  vision? 

Then  of  a  sudden  she  reminded  her  it  was  after  hours, 
instructed  her  to  undress  as  rapidly  as  possible  and  put  out 
her  light  as  Benediction  had  sounded  half  an  hour  ago.  A 
second  later  she  was  gone. 

The  days  which  followed  did  not  pass  quickly  to  the 
visitor  at  the  convent  of  the  Sisters  of  the  Adoration. 
Sister  Amparo  explained  to  her  Mother  Espiritu's  instruc- 
tions. Since  Miss  Cass  had  decided  to  become  one  of  the 
sisterhood,  it  was  agreed  that  the  present  time  could  be 
looked  upon  as  a  period  of  meditation  preceding  the  retreat. 
One  of  the  preliminaries  was  that  since  she  would  later 
discard  the  name  by  which  she  was  known  in  the  world, 
she  could  now  be  called  Maria  Pia,  anticipatory  to  becom- 
ing Sister  Maria  Pia. 

Any  such  preparations  impressed  her  as  quite  harmless 
and  unominous.  What  difference  did  it  make  if  she  was 
called  by  her  baptismal  name  or  "Pia,"  excepting  that  the 
latter  tended  to  conceal  still  further  her  identity.  She  was 
pleased  by  these  holy  disguises.  When  the  time  came  her 


262       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

means  of  extricating  herself  from  any  obligations  or  en- 
tanglements of  the  order  she  knew  would  be  as  simply  ef- 
fected as  had  her  entrance. 

She  was  not  proud  of  her  deceit  now  that  it  had  gained 
her  access  to  the  convent.  Nothing  could  be  less  admirable 
than  her  methods  of  lying  to  the  simple,  trusting  sisters 
about  a  pretended  vocation.  While  the  order  was  not  poor 
she  knew  her  understanding  with  Mother  Espiritu  that 
they  would  be  enriched  by  her  presence  had  not  been  with- 
out consideration.  She  would  allow  them  to  remain  un- 
deceived of  her  intentions  to  become  a  religieusc  until  after 
the  birth  of  her  child.  Then  she  could  explain,  naturally 
enough,  that  her  maternal  longings  convinced  her  that  her 
place  was  in  the  world.  She  would  make  the  sisters  a 
handsome  gift  as  restitution  toward  their  losing  her.  At 
odd  moments  she  debated  what  form  this  gift  should  take. 
A  rose  window  above  the  altar.  It  would  delight  the  Prior- 
ess. Or  had  it  not  better  be  something  of  her  own  selec- 
tion? It  was  less  important  that  it  be  intrinsically  beauti- 
ful than  that  the  sisters  thought  it  so.  Their  taste  was  not 
always  authoritative  she  had  noticed  from  the  artificial 
flowers  at  the  shrines.  Whatever  the  cost  her  mother 
would  gladly  advance  the  money  for  it  which  would  be 
returned  to  her  directly  she  was  married. 

She  felt  increasingly  weary  of  the  subterfuge  which  in- 
terposed itself  between  her  and  the  union  with  Jordan 
Buel.  The  time  of  her  marriage  now  seemed  further 
and  further  removed.  Every  action  of  hers  was  plunging 
her  deeper  into  a  morass  of  prevarications  and  lies.  Could 
she  ever  cut  her  way  out  into  the  air  again? 

She  was  awakened  on  her  first  morning  by  the  ringing 
of  the  bell  and  annoyed  that  her  sleep  was  interrupted  by 
any  such  distractions  she  turned  in  her  narrow  bed  without 
opening  her  eyes.  A  moment  later  Sister  Amparo  tapped 
on  her  door  to  tell  her  the  conventual  routine. 

The  bell  rang  at  6.15  and  at  present  her  rising  was  oblig- 
atory. At  6.30  were  morning  prayers,  then  Prime  and 
Tierce.  At  7  mass,  "Mea  Maxima  Culpa,"  and  exposition. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        263 

At  7.45  breakfast,  following  which  the  sisters  washed  the 
stone  floors  of  their  cells,  made  their  beds  and  dusted 
their  few  possessions.  Even  these  objects  which  were 
given  them  they  were  forced  to  exchange  at  the  end  of  the 
year  in  order  to  destroy  all  attachment  and  keep  their  minds 
free  from  transitory  interests.  Every  hour  of  the  day  was 
systematised  until  De  Profundis,  "the  great  silence,"  and 
the  next  morning. 

Sister  Amparo  explained  the  rules  would  be  relaxed  later 
on  as  necessity  demanded  until  she  had  completely  regained 
her  health  and  was  once  more  normal.  She  was  not  ex- 
pected at  Mass  in  chapel  or  to  share  their  meals  in  the 
refectory.  Beneath  her  cell  in  the  infirmary  were  two 
invalid  sisters,  one  said  to  be  over  eighty,  and  a  lay  sister 
would  serve  her  meals  with  them.  The  strict  diet  upheld 
by  the  rest  of  the  nuns  was  adjusted,  by  the  Prioress's 
orders,  that  she  might  have  strengthening  food.  She  was 
given  the  lives  of  the  saints  to  read,  instructed  to  pray  and 
meditate  and  allowed  to  remain  idle  for  hours  in  the  kitchen 
garden.  Here  she  sat  alone  separated  by  hedges  from 
the  courtyard  and  cloister  where  she  could  hear  the  laugh- 
ter of  the  novices  at  recreation.  The  thought  of  living 
through  a  succession  of  such  purposeless  days  appalled 
her. 

In  desperation  she  made  the  acquaintance  during  the  aft- 
ernoon of  the  only  man  at  the  convent,  Hipolito,  the  half- 
witted gardener.  Conversation  received  slight  fillup  from 
him,  however.  In  reply  to  her  remarks  Hipolito  shook  his 
head,  or  when  he  found  words  they  came  in  such  a  torrent 
of  sound  that  she  understood  him  still  less  and  restricted 
herself  to  gestures  and  comments  of  only  the  most  obvious 
kind. 

Before  the  day  was  over  she  had  written  a  telegram 
which  was  despatched  to  her  mother  in  Paris.  The  gar- 
dener carried  it  to  the  village  and  saw  to  its  sending  and 
though  the  wire  was  cryptic  to  the  average  reader,  to  Mrs. 
Cass,  who  remembered  the  cipher,  it  was  clear  and  reassur- 
ing. The  message  was  purposely  uninforming  to  protect 


264        SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

her  against  newspapers  and  detectives  and  ran  as  fol- 
lows: 

"Convent  accepts  lace  commission.  Work  on  same  con- 
tinues normal  and  satisfactory.  If  all  goes  well  should  be 
delivered  about  the  middle  of  April." 

It  was  signed  "Sister  Maria  Pia." 

This  was  followed  by  no  reply  according  to  agreement 
and  yet  Maria  Pia  had  hoped  that  her  mother  could  devise 
some  means  of  getting  word  to  her  in  safety.  She  realised 
the  risk  of  every  wire  or  letter.  That  her  own  had  not 
furnished  a  clue  was  fortuitous  but  not  to  be  repeated. 

It  was  three  weeks  later  that  she  received  the  first 
letter.  It  was  sent  from  New  York  and  while  their  return 
was  a  part  of  their  plan  to  assist  her,  the  knowledge  that 
they  were  at  home  and  an  ocean  separated  them  filled  her 
with  depression.  The  letter  was  written  on  plain  business 
paper  and  had  been  posted  by  their  lawyer.  The  superscrip- 
tion read :  "To  the  Reverend  Mother  Espiritu  of  the  Con- 
vent of  the  Sisters  of  the  Adoration."  Within  the  en- 
velope it  was  directed  simply  to  "Sister  Maria  Pia." 

Mrs.  Cass  wrote  that  the  great  storm  of  curiosity  which 
had  broken  at  the  time  of  her  daughter's  disappearance 
had  subsided  to  a  great  degree,  although  her  being  seen  so 
recently  at  Biarritz  and  Paris  had  encouraged  the  news- 
papers to  fresh  activities.  Several  of  their  own  letters 
showed  only  too  plainly  that  they  had  been  opened  before 
they  had  reached  them  and  their  telephone  had  been  con- 
tinually tapped.  The  result  was  that  they  had  agreed  not  to 
mention  her  even  indirectly  amongst  themselves  in  order  to 
assure  their  not  being  caught.  Moreover,  in  their  effort 
to  disabuse  present  scepticism  as  to  her  disappearance  she 
and  Annis  had  ordered  half-mourning. 

Mrs.  Cass  explained  that  her  father,  not  being  convinced 
of  her  death,  had  increased  his  reward  and  only  the  great- 
est caution  could  keep  her  from  being  found.  She  had 
attempted  to  urge  him  to  withdraw  his  offer  and  refuse  the 
offices  of  the  Secret  Service  but  in  this  she  had  failed  as  in 
other  efforts.  Mr.  Cass  remained  totally  ungovernable 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       265 

and  the  idea  of  telling  him  the  truth  was  not  to  be  thought 
of. 

She  had  suggested  in  case  his  daughter  was  guilty  of 
any  moral  delinquency  that  his  present  methods  of  en- 
couraging the  press  would  not  make  her  return  likely.  But 
Mr.  Cass  having  orientated  a  certain  pose  and  found  it  ef- 
fective refused  to  abandon  it.  Maria  Pia  knew  instinctively 
that  her  father  did  not  want  her  found ;  first  it  would  neces- 
sitate his  paying  the  reward;  and  second  he  would  have  to 
yield  his  prominence  to  her.  Therefore  he  had  replied  to 
his  wife  with  the  utmost  vehemence  that  if  their  daughter 
was  to  blame  for  her  downfall  she  ceased  to  be  any  daugh- 
ter of  his. 

Mrs.  Cass  cautioned  Maria  Pia  not  to  refer  in  her  reply  to 
anything  contained  in  the  present  letter.  All  communica- 
tions should  be  addressed  to  their  man  of  business,  Mr. 
Gutherie  Thomas,  at  his  office  in  Pine  Street.  Letters  in- 
tended for  Mr.  Buel  would  be  readdressed  in  business  en- 
velopes to  his  secretary's  office  in  Detroit,  there  to  be  opened 
by  Mr.  Buel.  Those  intended  for  her  mother,  Roscoe  or 
Annis  would  be  handed  them  by  Mr.  Thomas  in  person. 
In  this  way  they  minimised  all  dangers,  at  least  for  the 
present. 

Mr.  Buel's  letters  were  brief  if  not  circumspect.  Articu- 
lation on  paper  had  never  been  a  simple  matter  for  him. 
For  the  most  part  he  restricted  himself  to  outpourings  of 
love  and  regret  at  his  impotence  to  be  of  service  at  that 
distance.  The  return  to  America  had  been  to  confuse  the 
detectives  on  the  scent  and  convince  them  that  he  had  aban- 
doned the  search  as  hopeless.  He  was  impatient  to  hear 
of  the  birth ;  to  know  she  was  free  to  return  to  the  world. 
Just  in  what  way  she  intended  to  explain  her  absence  he 
did  not  know,  but  she  was  always  so  resourceful  that  he 
had  implicit  trust  in  her  judgment  to  expel  all  mysteries. 
This  done,  they  would  be  married  and  the  hateful  secrecy 
ended. 

She  realised  the  danger  of  replying  openly  and  spent 
days  in  composing  her  answers.  She  wished  to  have  her 


266       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

letters  simple,  transparent,  with  a  seeming  absence  of  in- 
tention to  the  casual  reader  and  a  second  meaning  apparent 
only  to  her  mother  or  Mr.  Buel.  None  of  the  sisters  were 
supposed  to  receive  word  from  the  world  until  the  Prioress 
had  decided  upon  its  fitness.  But  she  understood  no  Eng- 
lish and  as  Maria  Pia  had  not  yet  been  ordained  she  was 
allowed  a  greater  latitude.  Later  on,  not  to  be  outdone  by 
Mrs.  Cass's  thoroughness,  she  bribed  the  good  Sister  Am- 
paro  to  copy  her  letters  in  her  strangely  foreign  hand. 

Winter  passed. 

Rainy  days  were  the  hardest  to  endure  since  her  walks 
were  then  restricted  to  the  space  under  the  cloisters.  In 
spite  of  the  absence  of  heat,  she  was  never  cold  and  much 
of  the  time  actually  feverish. 

She  lost  her  colour.  Her  eyes  looked  haunted.  It 
seemed  to  Maria  Pia  that  every  vestige  of  good  looks  for- 
sook her.  If  her  appearance  did  not  improve  following  the 
baby's  birth  she  hoped  she  would  not  survive  it.  Mr.  Buel 
could  have  no  interest  in  the  sunken-eyed  woman  with  high 
cheek-bones  and  bloodless  lips.  She  wore  always  the  one 
grey  woollen  dress  the  sisters  had  made  for  her,  not  unlike 
the  habit  of  the  order,  with  loose,  ungainly  sleeves.  The 
neck  band  was  fastened  with  a  white  collar,  her  dark  hair 
plaited  and  hidden  under  her  cap. 

With  the  beginning  of  April  the  weather  turned  warmer. 
The  earth,  as  filled  with  moisture  as  a  sponge,  began  to 
send  up  anonymous  shoots.  The  trees  broke  into  bud,  and 
the  canaries  outside  the  Prioress's  window  chirped  all 
morning. 

As  the  period  of  her  confinement  drew  nearer  she  was 
surprised  that  she  did  not  face  the  ordeal  with  calm.  The 
one  implacable  fact  which  forced  itself  upon  her  attention 
was  that  she  would  be  without  medical  aid.  To  be  sure, 
the  infirmarian  would  take  the  best  care  of  her  that  she 
could,  but  the  sister  had  lived  a  cloistered  life  and  was 
without  experience. 

Maria  Pia  doubted  if  the  town  boasted  a  practitioner 
of  ability,  but  in  any  case  he  was  denied  her.  The  order 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       267 

had  bound  themselves  to  observe  perpetual  enclosure,  and 
though  during  the  past  twenty-five  years  they  had  fallen 
into  greater  relaxation,  no  such  departure  as  the  Prioress's 
present  one  in  accepting  her  had  been  considered  before. 
For  a  doctor  to  attend  a  young  woman  at  childbirth 
within  the  convent  would  place  Mother  Espiritu  in  disre- 
pute. 

Her  present  feeling  was  not  fear  of  death,  so  she  as- 
sured herself.  Nor  was  it  regret  at  being  unable  to  see  her 
mother  or  fiance  again.  For  oddly  enough  the  personalities 
of  both  now  seemed  merged  and  appeared  as  one,  the  only 
kind  and  beneficent  friend  in  the  world  who  loved  her. 
She  was  haunted  by  a  feeling  of  being  utterly  alone  in  an 
atmosphere  where  life  or  death  were  matters  of  total  in- 
consequence. Sister  Amparo's  attempt  to  comfort  her  with 
assurances  that  in  case  of  death  she  would  be  anointed 
and  given  the  last  sacrament  failed  utterly.  And  when  the 
lay-sister  talked  earnestly  of  being  a  "bride  of  the  Lord" 
Maria  Pia  had  to  curb  an  inclination  to  become  light  and 
irreligious.  She  was  conscious  that  her  condition  was  more 
physical  than  otherwise,  and  that  she  was  not  entirely 
responsible  for  her  longings. 

The  continued  discipline,  arduous  and  unrelaxed,  irked 
her.  She  was  maddened  by  the  rules  governing  intercourse. 
She  might  be  a  quarantine  patient  set  aside  in  a  ward  of 
infectious  disorders  for  all  the  fellowship  which  prevailed. 
She  could  not  speak  to  the  Superiors  unless  first  spoken 
to.  The  Prioress  she  had  not  seen  more  than  three  times 
since  her  entrance.  The  other  sisters  merely  inclined  their 
heads  slightly  as  they  passed  her,  except  for  Sister  Amparo, 
but  she  was  a  lay-sister  with  rarely  a  moment  for  medita- 
tion. The  lay-sisters  discharged  all  work  of  the  convent 
and  their  only  dissatisfaction  with  their  condition  was  that 
it  deprived  them  of  sufficient  time  for  prayer.  Therefore 
the  periods  designated  as  "recreation"  Sister  Amparo 
occupied  in  reciting  her  office. 

Maria  Pia  had  written  to  the  chief  bookseller  in  Madrid 
for  a  list  of  books.  But  upon  their  arrival  the  Prioress 


268       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

had  investigated  the  package  and  been  scandalised  by 
its  contents.  It  seemed  that  the  greater  part  of  the  mod- 
ern writers  of  Spain  were  not  endorsed  by  the  church.  The 
books  were  burned  and  Maria  Pia's  avid  taste  for  compan- 
ionship was  not  whetted  by  those  recommended  from  the 
convent  shelves. 

She  had  attempted  social  conversation  with  the  aged  in- 
valids in  the  infirmary  but  one  was  toothless  and  Maria 
Pia's  efforts  at  understanding  a  foreign  language  that  was 
largely  swallowed  made  her  hysterical.  The  other  sister 
rarely  spoke  but  sat  for  hours  with  opaque  eyes,  while  her 
rosary  passed  intermittently  through  her  lean  fingers,  yel- 
low as  parchment.  Her  face  was  emaciated  and  her  lips 
murmuring  a  continuous  Pater,  Ave  and  Gloria  seemed 
worn  away  by  perpetual  praying. 

She  became  afraid  that  looking  at  the  elderly  nuns 
might  have  a  bad  impression  upon  her  child  and  so  culti- 
vated an  annoying  trait  of  looking  away  while  addressing 
them.  Hipolito  had  ceased  to  be  an  invigourating  com- 
panion. At  present  there  was  little  or  no  work  to  be 
done  out  of  doors.  Earlier  she  had  transplanted  bulbs 
from  the  greenhouse  and  taken  to  weeding  borders  but 
even  that  was  too  wearisome  for  her  at  present.  She 
longed  to  learn  lace-making  to  keep  her  hands  occupied 
but  had  grown  too  "nervous"  for  exacting  work. 

One  evening  she  returned  to  her  cell  to  see  if  a  letter 
had  arrived  from  her  mother.  Letters  came  more  fre- 
quently from  Mr.  Buel  now  that  the  time  drew  nearer. 
But  she  hoped  this  one  would  be  from  her  mother,  for 
after  all  she  felt  hers  would  contain  greater  comfort  and  be 
more  understanding.  As  she  opened  her  door  she  looked 
on  her  bed ;  it  contained  no  letter.  The  bed,  like  all  others, 
was  narrow,  spotlessly  white,  with  a  brass  crucifix  against 
the  pillows. 

She  started  in  search  of  Sister  Amparo  when  De  Pro- 
fundis  sounded.  At  that  moment  she  heard  the  lay-sister's 
step  in  the  passage  and  went  to  meet  her. 


St}E  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       269 

"You  are  just  the  person  I  want  to  see,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  copy  a  letter  for  me,  dear  sister?" 

She  made  her  request  in  her  most  winning  way,  but  Sis- 
ter Amparo  gave  no  sign  of  having  heard  her. 

"I  know  the  bell  has  sounded  for  silence,  but  I'm  not 
asking  you  to  speak.  I  will  do  the  talking  and  take  the 
punishment.  You  can  just  answer  by  shaking  your  head. 
Will  you?" 

Still  there  came  no  answer. 

At  length,  as  Maria  Pia  realised  the  faithful  lay-sister 
could  not  be  urged  to  enter  into  this  deception,  she  tore 
open  her  door  and  re-entered  her  room  violently.  Throw- 
ing herself  upon  her  bed,  she  grasped  the  crucifix  and 
breviary  and  hurled  them  across  the  room,  crying: 

"Dash  the  great  silence.  .  .  .  Dash  it!  Do  you  hear? 
And  dash  Saint  Jerome!" 

Then  she  broke  into  unrestrained  tears,  her  whole  body 
heaving  while  she  moaned  like  a  creature  in  pain. 

Sister  Amparo  stood  in  the  doorway  transfixed,  shocked 
beyond  expression.  In  all  her  life  she  had  never  witnessed 
any  such  outburst  of  racking  emotion.  She  picked  up  the 
cross  and  placed  it  reverently  on  the  washstand  and  then 
smoothed  out  the  creased  pages  of  the  breviary.  Maria  Pia, 
seeing  her  expression,  attempted  to  beg  her  pardon. 

The  four  bronze  bells  of  the  convent  were  named 
for  four  saints.  Saint  Thomas  Aquinas,  Saint  Francis 
d'Assisi,  Saint  Benedict  and  Saint  Jerome.  The  bell  which 
rang  announcing  the  silence  was  "Saint  Jerome." 

"I  didn't  mean,"  Maria  Pia  said,  subsiding,  while  she 
dried  her  tears  on  her  frontlet,  "that  I  dashed  the  real  Saint 
Jerome.  I  only  meant  dash  the  bell  or  dash  the  clapper. 
I'd  take  it  out  if  I  thought  I  could.  I'm  sorry.  I'll  try  to 
be  good.  But  you  don't  know  what  it's  like,  Sister  Am- 
paro, to  be  all  alone.  You've  got  God,  but  I've  got  no- 
body. Come  here  to  me." 

And  placing  her  arms  around  Sister  Amparo,  she  kissed 
her  on  both  cheeks. 

It  was  after  midnight  that  she  tapped  with  her  boot 


270       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

against  the  connecting  wall  between  hers  and  Sister  Am- 
paro's  cell.  After  several  minutes  the  lay-sister  appeared 
in  the  doorway  and  lighted  her  candle.  She  did  not  ask 
any  questions.  As  she  saw  Maria  Pia's  convulsed  face 
she  understood.  She  withdrew  and  returned  a  little  later 
with  the  infirmarian,  Sister  Celestina. 

Maria  Pia  was  rocking  with  pain. 

The  infirmarian  sent  directly  for  assistance  and  another 
sister  came  who  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  watching  the 
patient  in  her  torment.  She  had  never  seen  this  sister 
before  and  asked  her  name. 

"She  is  Mother  Salome,"  said  Sister  Celestina. 

Maria  Pia  began  to  laugh  in  a  relaxed  and  foolish  way. 
Her  laughter  increased  after  she  had  repeated  the  name 
until  the  passage  rang  with  it.  It  was  uncontrolled  laugh- 
ter, hysteric,  unpleasant.  The  sisters  exchanged  glances  of 
distress.  Their  patient  was  evidently  delirious. 

And  then  in  the  midst  of  her  laughter  she  was  clutched 
in  the  maw  of  pains  that  silenced  her.  She  had  not  sup- 
posed it  possible  for  anyone  to  endure  such  agony.  She 
felt  faint.  She  thought  she  was  on  the  verge  of  losing 
consciousness.  But  the  longed-for  oblivion  did  not  come. 
The  pain  racked  her  through  a  mist  that  was  enveloping 
her  and  her  surroundings.  She  moaned  aloud.  She  felt 
that  the  delicate  bones  of  her  body  were  being  crushed  in 
the  grip  of  an  iron  girder.  Her  teeth  bit  her  pillow.  Sister 
Celestina  pressed  a  handkerchief  saturated  with  ether  to 
her  nose. 

She  breathed  it.  She  gasped,  feeling  giddy,  reeling.  Her 
hands  gripped  the  iron  bar  above  her  head  as  her  last  con- 
tact with  realities  began  to  slip  from  her  and  she  braced 
herself  to  endure.  , 


XXXII 

MARIA  PIA  forgot  she  was  a  prisoner  when  she  sat  in 
the  cloistered  garden,  to  which  she  was  now  admitted  with 
the  sleeping  bundle  in  her  arms.  The  return  of  spring, 
with  hours  of  unbroken  warmth,  produced  a  well-being  and 
contentment  in  which  both  mother  and  son  thrived. 

The  nuns  would  have  wakened  the  child  at  all  hours  to 
pluck  a  flower  and  see  him  smile  had  Maria  Pia  not  in- 
sisted upon  discipline.  As  it  was  he  slept  the  greater  part 
of  the  day  with  only  periodic  interruptions.  The  convent 
was  innocent  of  a  cradle  but  a  basket  was  found  wherein 
he  lay  on  a  pillow,  with  an  open  umbrella  placed  above  him 
as  protection  from  the  sunlight.  And  nearby  on  the  stone 
bench  Maria  Pia  sat,  listening  to  the  canaries  of  the 
Prioress  overhead  and  watching  the  flowers  expand  and 
bloom  in  the  dazzling  sunlight. 

Unprotected  from  the  glare  were  strange  looking,  tropi- 
cal begonias,  that  seemed  to  be  always  thrusting  out  their 
tongues,  as  though  making  faces.  And  red  lilies  that  looked 
like  lateen  sails.  There  were  beds  of  blue  forget-me-nots 
above  which  the  red  tulip  Cardinal  lifted  scores  of  goblets 
as  though  proposing  a  toast  in  blood.  There  were  shocks 
of  colour  in  bands,  Michaelmas  daisies,  monk's  hood  and 
clove  pinks  surrounded  by  borders  of  ribbon  grass,  and 
against  the  convent  walls  were  outspread  espaliers  where 
nectarines  would  later  ripen. 

In  a  circle  of  water  lived  a  group  of  goldfish  quite  tame 
and  always  greedy  for  crumbs.  At  her  approach  they  darted 
toward  the  edge  of  the  basin,  each  crimson  entity  seeming 
the  petal  of  a  flower,  with  which  they  formed  themselves 
into  patterns  unknown  to  the  horticulturist,  and  when  grati- 
fied darted  into  the  depths  like  a  scattering  of  fugitive 
flames. 

271 


272 

May  was  the  month  dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  and 
there  were  ceremonies  and  masses  every  day  with  the  altar 
vases  filled  with  a  succession  of  Madonna  lilies  and  candles 
burning  at  every  shrine.  There  was  different  jewels  upon 
the  hands  of  the  Virgin,  her  finest  diadem  upon  her  brow 
and  the  altar  cloths  exposed  were  of  lace  like  cobwebs.  In 
the  choir  the  nuns  wore  their  black  mantles,  and  the  convent 
was  barefooted,  as  was  the  custom  of  their  order,  from  the 
first  of  May  until  the  feast  of  the  exaltation  of  the  Holy 
Cross  in  September. 

Pia  now  joined  in  all  the  exercises  of  the  day,  medita- 
tion, recitation  of  the  Divine  Office,  spiritual  exercises, 
Matins  and  Lauds  which  were  recited  in  the  evenings.  Five 
strokes  of  "Saint  Thomas  Aquinas"  were  given  as  a  re- 
minder of  the  benefits  conferred  by  the  Holy  Eucharist. 

Pia  had  never  debated  what  name  she  would  give  her 
child,  but  almost  at  once  decided  upon  John.  The  name 
was  brief,  virile  and  commonplace,  all  of  them  excellent  at- 
tributes for  a  man.  At  the  same  time  it  was  non-commit- 
tal, which  in  her  position  was  very  necessary.  It  was  some 
time  later  that  she  realized  it  was  her  father's  name,  al- 
though he  had  elected  to  be  known  as  "J.  de  Witte  Cass," 
but  the  irony  of  the  coincidence  afforded  her  a  smile. 

Her  plans  for  leaving  the  convent  had  been  made  several 
weeks  before.  They  were  simple  and  perhaps  less  disin- 
genuous than  Mr.  Jordan  Buel  had  been  led  to  expect.  This 
was  a  question  which  had  at  no  time  been  absent  from 
her  mind  since  she  had  taken  refuge  in  the  order.  She 
would  remain  where  she  was  until  she  felt  relatively  safe 
in  leaving  John.  When  that  time  arrived  she  would  draw 
from  her  mother's  account  at  Morgan,  Harjes  et  Cie  in 
Paris  and  come  suddenly  out  into  the  open.  Once  more 
before  the  public  she  would  explain  that  she  had  been  stolen 
and  then  left  unconscious  at  the  convent.  Following  the 
shock  of  this  experience  her  memory  had  deserted  her. 
The  good  sisters  had  allowed  her  retreat  and  there  she  had 
remained  unmolested  until  a  few  days  since  when  she  had 
begun  to  recall  her  past,  her  name  and  family. 


273 

This  ^vould  require  acting  of  a  high  order  but  Pia  had 
felt  capable  to  acquit  herself  of  the  demands  of  her  situa- 
tion. Mr.  Buel  would  hasten  from  America ;  they  would  be 
married  in  England,  remaining  on  the  continent  for  sev- 
eral months.  Upon  her  return,  John,  still  in  the  custody 
of  some  trustworthy  woman,  would  be  another  passenger, 
and  by  this  woman  be  claimed  as  her  own.  Later,  a  year 
or  two  years,  John  would  be  adopted  by  Mr.  Buel,  perhaps 
as  a  playmate  for  a  younger  child,  perhaps  because  they 
were  without  children,  as  the  case  might  be. 

There  were  weak  spots  in  this  scheme  and  yet  of  the 
many  she  turned  over  in  her  mind  it  seemed  the  most  rea- 
sonable. Aphasia  was  a  not  infrequent  ailment  and  the 
convent,  never  seeing  the  press,  did  not  know  who  she  was. 
As  to  her  childbirth,  the  nuns  could  be  trusted.  Secrecy 
was  the  mainstay  of  the  order  and  a  confession  remained 
inviolate. 

The  only  obstacle  to  this  procedure  was  that  she  had 
changed  her  mind.  The  great  superstructure  of  fabrication 
upon  which  everything  had  rested  suddenly  collapsed.  Out 
of  its  ruins  she  found  herself  serene,  unharmed.  And  for 
some  reason  which  she  was  powerless  to  fathom  she  felt 
that  for  the  first  time  she  had  come  into  her  strength. 
She  had  passed  through  a  long  and  tortured  delirium,  had 
at  length  emerged,  laid  claim  to  her  identity  and  found  her- 
self intact. 

The  means  whereby  these  results  were  achieved  were  still 
beyond  her.  At  first  Mr.  Buel  had  scrupulously  upheld  his 
share  of  the  agreement  of  exchanging  letters  only  once  a 
month.  Then  as  the  period  of  danger  drew  near  he  wrote 
more  often  until  his  letters  came  twice  a  week  and  later  by 
almost  every  post.  She  was  aware  that  his  assurances  of 
love  were  growing  slightly  repetitional.  After  all,  there 
were  not  many  modes  of  expression  whereby  a  lover  could 
write  the  woman  of  his  heart  that  he  had  kept  faith  with 
her,  and  Mr.  Buel  seemed  to  have  exhausted  them  all. 

The  climax  resulted  from  his  answer  to  her  letter  an- 
nouncing the  birth  of  John.  Overjoyed  at  the  safe  de- 


274       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

livery  and  her  own  gain  in  strength  he  wrote  thtat  he  would 
sail  for  Europe  directly.  This  move  was  the  last  step  she 
desired.  Pia  found  herself  growing  curiously  combative 
toward  this  element  of  his  of  working  out  his  own  schemes 
and  expecting  her  to  conform  to  their  requirements  as  they 
arose.  Her  immediate  rejoinder  was  terse : 

"Don't  sail.     Am  writing." 

But  the  letter  which  was  to  follow  this  message  was  not 
a  simple  one  to  indite  and  Pia  devoted  days  to  its  delibera- 
tion. A  psycho-analysis  of  which  she  was  conscious  but 
scarcely  understood  gripped  her.  It  possessed  an  under- 
current of  mental  revulsion  that  in  its  intensity  warned  her 
was  not  to  be  thwarted.  All  she  could  do  was  accept  it 
on  its  face  value  as  proof  that  she  no  longer  loved  Jordan 
Buel. 

She  could  not  find  any  adequate  explanation  of  what  had 
taken  place.  She  had  loved  him.  She  no  longer  loved 
him.  That  was  all.  She  could  not  account  for  the  un- 
doubted finality  of  her  feelings,  since  they  had  been  with- 
out renewals  or  further  contacts.  Something  had  left  her 
and  in  the  place  of  love  was  a  critical  distaste. 

Pia  continued  to  reassure  herself  that  this  was  a  transi- 
tory state  from  which  she  would  later  on  emerge.  Young 
women  on  the  brink  of  matrimony  often  had  tremors  and 
were  victims  of  emotional  vertigo.  At  least  women  of  a 
past  generation  had  indulged  in  such  inversions.  Was  her 
present  indifference  anything  more? 

And  if  so,  to  what  did  she  owe  it?  Mr.  Buel  had  not 
changed  she  knew.  A  sense  of  character  and  a  knowledge 
of  values  fed  upon  meditation  told  her  he  was  not  a  man 
who  would  change.  He  would  remain  always  very  much 
as  he  was  now,  rather  young  for  his  age,  unimaginative,  a 
little  heavy,  a  trifle  settled,  fired  by  her  spirit  and  daring. 

His  love  for  her  was  not  love  in  her  sense  but  a  rather 
highly  coloured  preference.  He  preferred  her  to  any  girl 
he  knew.  The  discrepancy  in  their  ages  he  was  not  strik- 
ingly aware  of.  A  certain  boyish  quality  about  him,  the 
result  of  little  depth  of  thought,  would  always  keep  him  on 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       275 

an  easy  footing  with  her  contemporaries.  She  saw  him 
now  for  what  he  was.  That  her  vision  was  a  little  cruel 
was  not  her  fault.  Nor  was  she  to  blame  for  having 
fancied  him  a  man  of  substance  and  attainments.  He  was 
the  only  man  she  had  ever  known.  But  her  eyes  were 
opened,  and  the  sight  of  him  manifest  in  the  continued 
tedium  of  his  letters  was  not  to  be  renewed  in  the  flesh. 

The  fact  that  she  no  longer  loved  Jordan  Buel  did  not 
automatically  close  the  relationship.  The  predicament  was 
not  so  simple.  She  had  placed  herself  in  a  situation 
whereby  she  could  not  be  easily  disembarrassed  of  him. 
Mr.  Buel  was  ready  and  waiting  to  marry  her,  and  each 
delay  would  only  have  the  effect  of  increasing  an  amatory 
impatience  already  excessive.  She  regretted  being  the 
means  of  causing  him  pain,  but  after  all  he  had  not  been 
over-careful  of  her.  Yet  she  bore  him  no  resentment  for 
anything  but  his  persistence  in  wanting  to  marry  her. 

What  means  had  she  of  letting  him  down  gradually? 
How  could  she  give  him  his  conge  without  being  brutal? 
Though  the  attachment  galled  she  realised  he  was  in  no 
way  to  blame  for  her  change  of  heart.  She  did  not  love 
him  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  either  by  corre- 
spondence or  in  confronting  each  other. 

But  the  further  she  withdrew  the  more  she  knew  he 
would  advance.  Pia  realised  that  each  effort  to  put  him 
off  would  only  serve  to  ignite  him  further.  If  she  told  him 
she  no  longer  loved  him  he  would  not  believe  it.  He  would 
wish  to  argue.  He  would  ask  her  what  had  happened.  He 
would  have  theories,  masculine  theories,  that  a  woman  never 
ceases  to  love  one  man  unless  she  has  fallen  in  love  with 
another.  He  would  declare  that  once  removed  from  the 
religious  environment  his  embraces  would  serve  to  restore 
her  lost  equilibrium. 

And  then  Pia  was  amazed  by  the  memory  of  her  mother's 
intuition.  Mrs.  Cass  had  assured  her  the  summer  previous 
when  in  Paris  that  she  did  not  love  Jordan  Buel.  She  was 
stunned  by  the  accuracy  of  her  mother's  understanding  of 
her ;  the  intensity  of  her  feeling  and  its  instant  recoil. 


276       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

What  was  she  to  do  ? 

Why  had  she  changed? 

The  vapidness  of  regretting  past  actions  was  an  indul- 
gence which  she  had  never  allowed  herself.  What  was 
past  was  past.  Nor  had  she  any  thought  to  disinter  its 
ashes. 

Pia  felt  that  she  owed  Jordan  Buel's  love  every  considera- 
tion. On  the  other  hand  she  felt  an  indifference  that  re- 
moved him  to  an  outer  limbo  beyond  her  abysmal  con- 
tempt. The  male  who  urges  the  female  whom  he  considers 
his  rightful  mate  to  relinquish  herself  to  him  before  mar- 
riage was  equally  compounded  bounder  and  fool.  There 
was  no  defence  for  him  since  he  was  lacking  in  the  essen- 
tials of  honour  and  decency.  He  had  lost  her  love  not 
through  the  wrong  he  had  done  her,  but  through  the  absence 
of  manhood  of  which  he  stood  convicted ;  an  all-pervading 
second-rateness,  mental,  moral,  actual. 

Suddenly  through  the  entanglement  there  appeared  a 
way  out. 

It  was  slow  and  tortuous  but  it  led  to  freedom.  She 
would  declare  that  she  had  gained  a  vocation.  She  had 
decided  to  renounce  the  world  and  be  ordained,  binding 
herself  to  perpetual  enclosure. 

The  audacity  of  the  idea  startled  her.  It  would  insure 
her  of  never  seeing  him,  since  she  would  write  she  had  no 
intention  of  renewing  any  friendships  in  the  world.  No 
good  could  come  of  good-byes  or  last  interviews  as  they 
would  only  unsettle  her  now  that  her  resolve  had  been  made. 
That  being  so,  it  was  futile  for  him  to  come  abroad  with 
the  intention  of  urging  her  to  reconsider  a  decision  on  which 
her  peace  of  mind  depended.  It  would  also  free  her  from 
a  mass  of  letters  of  remonstrance  and  recrimination  since 
they  would  not  be  allowed  her.  The  security  of  her  posi- 
tion would  be  unique. 

No  such  disclosure  as  this,  however,  could  be  flung  at  him 
unwarned.  Step  by  step  she  must  prepare  him  for  what 
was  to  come.  She  composed  her  first  letter,  begging  him 
to  return  to  the  original  schedule  of  writing,  as  his  impor- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       277 

tunity  was  likely  to  betray  her  to  detectives.  As  she  loved 
her  child  with  increasing  fervour  the  mere  thought  of  sepa- 
rating herself  from  him,  even  for  a  short  time  to  satisfy  ex- 
pediency, was  not  to  be  entertained.  She  knew  of  no 
woman  in  whose  care  she  could  trust  John.  And  of  what 
use  to  maintain  her  reputation  in  the  world  if  through  this 
act  she  was  to  lose  her  son?  She  had  therefore  reached 
the  conclusion  that  she  must  remain  with  the  nuns  until 
John  was  eight  or  ten  months  old,  when  the  dangers  of 
trusting  him  to  a  stranger  would  be  minimised. 

Mr.  Bud's  replies,  while  expostulatory,  realised  the 
soundness  of  her  arguments,  so  that  they  spent  themselves 
in  the  usual  regrets  and  the  declaration  that  he  would  be 
waiting  for  her  when  the  time  came. 

In  her  answer  she  explained  how  peaceful  the  routine  of 
the  conventual  life  had  become.  It  was  a  solace  to  her 
now  that  the  beauty  of  their  rites  and  abstinence  were  mani- 
fest, as  she  realised  herself  more  attuned  to  her  environ- 
ment. The  nuns  were  the  happiest  people  in  the  world  and 
she  understood  so  easily  the  call  of  the  religious  life. 

His  answer  made  no  comment  to  these  observations  and 
Pia  knew  she  had  gained  little  headway  in  her  preparations. 
She  wrote  more  openly  that  she  found  her  cloistered  life 
among  the  pleasantest  she  had  ever  known.  And  she  ques- 
tioned if  she  would  ever  be  as  happy  elsewhere. 

Mr.  Bud's  only  allusion  to  these  lines  was  to  say  she  evi- 
dently had  a  meagre  opinion  of  matrimonial  delights.  And 
he  closed  with  the  wager  that  his  first  kiss  would  cause  her 
to  forget  that  she  had  ever  been  in  a  convent. 

She  smiled  at  his  fatuity. 

His  persistence  in  not  understanding  began  to  annoy.  It 
was  discouraging  this  attitude  of  his  of  not  realising  he  had 
ceased  to  matter.  Was  it  the  fault  of  Mr.  Buel's  egotism 
that  he  could  not  grasp  the  idea  that  a  young  woman  should 
pass  beyond  the  stage  of  loving  him? 

She  answered  bluntly  that  she  would  not  leave  the  con- 
vent when  planned.  Each  day  she  realised  more  and  more 
that  she  possessed  a  vocation. 


278       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Bud's  reply  was  that  her  "vocation,"  as  she  called 
it,  was  to  make  him  happy,  and  it  would  engage  all  her 
attention  to  do  so.  He  did  not  seem  aware  of  any  anti- 
climax in  this  statement.  Over-indulgence  in  religion,  he 
wrote,  was  intemperance  just  as  much  as  that  of  a  grosser 
kind.  And  then  came  an  obscene  reference  to  a  father  con- 
fessor. ...  If  she  had  ever  thought  him  second-rate,  these 
lines  seemed  amply  corroborative. 

Pia  waited  weeks  and  then  wrote  she  had  decided  to  be 
"received."  She  was  sorry  to  tell  him  but,  of  course,  he 
had  suspected  it  for  months  past  as  he  realised  her  re- 
luctance to  leave  the  order.  She  could  never  see  him  again, 
and  while  she  hoped  for  his  forgiveness  as  she  forgave  him, 
any  letters  beyond  his  next  would  be  returned  by  the  Rev- 
erend Mother  unopened. 

His  letter  came. 

It  was  bitter,  ungenerous,  full  of  feeble  satire  and  cow- 
ardly denunciation.  He  claimed  religion  was  a  new  emotion 
with  her  and  would  not  last.  She  would  tire  of  God  as  she 
had  tired  of  him  and  what  would  be  left  her  then?  Where 
could  she  turn  for  succour  after  imprisoning  herself  from 
life?  In  the  meantime,  what  was  to  become  of  him?  Or 
had  he  no  place  in  her  present  scheme  ?  What  had  he  ever 
done  to  deserve  such  neglect  ?  Wasn't  he  her  rightful  hus- 
band? Hadn't  he  at  all  times  been  tender,  chivalrous,  af- 
fectionate ?  .  .  .  And  was  he  in  payment  for  a  two  years' 
debt  of  waiting  to  be  thrown  over  for  a  religious  flirta- 
tion. .  .  .  The  abuse  became  offensive.  .  .  . 

Later  two  more  letters  arrived  from  him  and  were  re- 
turned. 

After  that  was  silence. 

The  rigours  of  winter  ended ;  spring  emerged,  giving  way 
to  a  wilting  summer. 

In  the  garden  of  the  Sisters  of  the  Adoration  there  was 
no  change.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of 
flowers.  The  water  in  the  fish  pond  became  so  warm  that 
the  fish  were  transferred  to  other  quarters.  John  took  his 
afternoon  nap  regularly  under  the  shade  of  a  fig  tree,  and 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       279 

Pia  remained  faithful,  near  at  hand,  in  the  breathless  gar- 
den continuing  a  desultory  botanising. 

One  afternoon  toward  the  end  of  summer  she  was  seated 
in  her  usual  haunt,  her  mind  adrift,  watching  a  bee  hum- 
ming toward  a  campanile  of  Canterbury  bells.  The 
flowers  swayed  slightly  as  though  to  attract  him,  but  he 
refuted  their  boldness  and  sped  away  to  a  foxglove.  She 
saw  him  enter  its  trumpet  masterfully  and  watched  him  as 
he  lay  on  its  bosom  covering  himself  with  golden  pollen  in 
his  greed  for  love.  He  lay  silent  as  though  dead,  his  antlia 
driven  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  flower.  The  foxglove 
began  to  rock  him  gently  to  and  fro,  thrilled  as  though  with 
voluptuous  enjoyment.  Slowly  he  staggered  out  of  the 
hood  of  its  sweetness,  flexing  his  legs,  then  flew  away, 
weak,  uncertain,  as  though  drunk  with  passion.  The  flower 
began  to  close,  as  though  denying  itself  to  others,  and  a 
little  later  a  breath  of  wind  blew  its  hood  to  the  ground; 
its  hour  of  romance  having  been  fulfilled  its  life  was  over. 

Engrossed  in  this  horticultural  fancy  she  noticed  the 
draped  bulk  of  one  of  the  sisters  detach  itself  from  the 
shadow  of  the  cloister  and  enter  the  garden.  Not  wishing 
to  be  interrupted  in  her  reverie  Pia  closed  her  eyes  intend- 
ing to  affect  sleep.  She  knew  idleness  was  deplored,  but 
she  was  in  no  mood  for  either  work  or  prayer.  She  heard 
the  sister's  sandals  on  the  flagged  walk  and  the  beads  of  her 
rosary  click  at  her  side  while  she  moved,  and  then  become 
silent  as  she  came  to  a  standstill  before  her.  The  sister 
called  her  by  name: 

"Maria  Pia !" 

Opening  her  eyes  she  looked  up  Into  the  unruffled  face  of 
Mother  Salome. 

"You  shouldn't  be  p.sleep  here.  I'm  afraid  you  will  have 
sunstroke." 

Her  voice  of  seeming  solicitude  Pia  ;nstinctively  dis- 
trusted. She  was  conscious  of  inharmonious  vibrations  and 
knew  that  she  and  Mother  Salome  were  marked  for  -en- 
mity. 

"Were  you  one  of  those  who  spent  the  night  in  prayer?'* 


28o       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"No,  Mother  Salome." 

"I  can't  think  what  makes  you  so  tired." 

"Probably  because  I  am  not  thoroughly  accustomed  to  the 
life." 

Mother  Salome  remained  standing  before  her  in  the  atti- 
tude usual  among  sisters,  each  hand  hidden  in  the  full  sleeve 
of  the  other  arm.  Her  expression  was  judicial. 

"My  dear  daughter,  that  is  exactly  what  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about.  How  long  have  you  been  at  the  convent  ?" 

She  felt  a  sudden  uprush  of  fear  as.  she  realised  the 
readiness  of  her  reply  had  helped  to  precipitate  this  ques- 
tion. She  had  always  known  that  this  was  an  eventuality 
which  must  some  day  be  faced,  but  with  the  passing  of 
months  without  allusion  to  it,  it  had  of  late  gone  from  her 
memory.  She  returned  Mother  Salome's  calm  scrutiny. 

"Two  years  and  five  months,"  she  said. 

"Precisely  my  own  calculations,  daughter.  You  entered 
with  the  idea  of  joining  the  order,  did  you  not  ?" 

"Certainly,  Mother  Salome." 

"Well,  my  daughter,  you  have  had  more  than  time  enough 
to  search  your  heart.  Have  you  decided  to  take  the  vows  ?" 

Pia  did  not  remove  her  eyes  from  the  inscrutable  face 
before  her.  The  thought  of  taking  the  vow  of  stability  like 
the  rest  of  the  order  and  later  separating  herself  from  her 
boy  filled  her  with  terror.  Mother  Salome  did  not  move 
but  remained  before  her  waiting  her  reply. 

"I  am  listening,  my  daughter." 

"Yes  and  no." 

"I  thought  so.     And  just  what  does  that  reply  mean?" 

"It  means,  dear  Mother,  that  all  the  spiritual  side  of  me 
rejoices  in  the  peace  and  sanctity  of  the  enclosure.  .  .  . 
But  the  other  side.  .  .  ." 

"The  other  side  is  the  evil  of  your  nature.  That  must  be 
fought  and  overcome.  Pray  to  God  that  you  may  increase 
in  grace  and  humility  before  His  eyes  and  be  deemed  worthy 
to  be  a  bride  of  the  Lord." 

"As  it  happens  the  other  side  of  my  nature  is  my  mother* 
hood." 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       281 

For  a  moment  Mother  Salome  was  silenced,  and  then 
continued  earnestly: 

"I  think  the  Reverend  Mother  explained  to  you  that 
this  was  not  an  active  order,  so  that  you  entered  under  no 
misapprehension.  I  can't  think  what  would  be  the  opinion 
of  the  Mother  House  if  it  was  understood  that  you  came 
here  for  other  than  religious  purposes.  You  know  you 
have  been  granted  special  indulgence,  and  I  can  only  say 
that  I  shall  insist  that  the  question  of  your  remaining  is  put 
to  the  vote  at  the  next  chapter.  That  will  take  place  in  a 
week.  And  I  may  say  I  am  confident  of  the  result." 

"That  will  mean  my  eviction?" 

"It  will  mean  you  must  make  an  immediate  choice  be- 
tween the  order  and  the  world.  I  am  not  charging  you,  my 
daughter,  with  attempting  to  hoodwink  the  sisters.  But 
you  knew  the  monastic  ideal  before  entering,  and  you  have 
no  reason  for  shilly-shallying.  You  have  a  vocation  or 
you  haven't.  In  either  way  your  future  is  cut  out  for 
you." 

Having  spoken  Mother  Salome  continued  on  her  way  and 
Pia  remained  a  prey  to  depression.  She  had  put  off  the  evil 
hour,  but  the  decision  could  not  be  postponed  any  longer. 

If  she  left  the  convent  with  John  she  would  be  recognized 
almost  at  once.  That  would  mean  a  reconstruction  of  all 
that  had  taken  place,  peccant,  degrading,  incontestable.  All 
the  actualities  of  the  last  three  years  laid  bare ;  newspapers 
would  gloat  over  the  items ;  the  cinema  depict  her  struggles. 
All  the  channels  of  vulgarity  to  which  America  had  access 
would  be  placed  at  her  disposal.  But  even  though  she  had 
sufficient  bravado  to  face  press  and  public,  where  could 
she  go  ?  She  could  not  return  home  even  though  she  were 
willing  to  so  humble  herself.  She  knew  her  father  would 
not  offer  her  shelter  unless  married.  A  curious  sensation 
of  pulse  and  nerves  told  her  that  Jordan  Buel  could  not  be 
tolerated  even  though  he  were  still  willing  to  have  her. 

It  meant  branding  John  with  a  disgrace  he  could  never 
in  later  life  throw  off,  a  sensational  illegitimacy.  It  meant 
reducing  her  mother,  Annis  and  Roscoe  to  objects  of  specu- 


282       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

lation  of  the  morbidly  curious.  And  she  herself  would  act 
as  buffer  to  the  advances  of  the  criminal  and  obscene. 
Decidedly  no,  such  a  release  was  not  possible. 

To  remain  meant  taking  permanent  vows,  sacrificing  her- 
self to  a  life  of  silence  and  drudgery.  Already  the  regular 
practice  of  offices  filled  her  undisciplined  nature  with  revolt. 
She  appreciated  the  piety  of  the  nuns,  motivated  by  God 
without  thought  or  inclination  of  their  own,  passing  through 
emotionless  days,  where  prayers  came  automatically  to  their 
lips,  and  the  wooden  rosary  slipped  mechanically  through 
their  calloused  hands.  Nor  was  that  all.  It  meant  relin- 
quishing all  claim  to  John;  not  seeing  him;  not  knowing 
life;  no  longer  feeling  the  pulse  of  the  world.  It  meant 
living,  perhaps,  until  eighty  like  the  sister  in  the  infirmary, 
and  then  dying  only  because  the  habit  of  life  had  run  down. 

The  hand  she  placed  to  her  brow  was  wet.  Her  nerves 
were  jangling.  The  decision  seemed  already  beyond  her 
power  to  act.  Life  imprisonment  in  the  order ;  public  dis- 
grace in  the  world.  Both  were  equally  repellent,  and  she 
knew  she  could  steer  no  middle  course. 

Two  hours  later  Pia  had  not  moved  when  the  bell  rang 
for  Vespers  and  Benediction. 


XXXIII 

Six  months  passed  without  incident. 

Maria  Pia  never  knew  if  Mother  Salome  put  her  threat 
into  practice  and  it  was  defeated;  or  if  she  hesitated  to 
make  her  views  known  to  the  Prioress,  since  the  Reverend 
Mother  had  not  interrogated  her  on  that  subject.  The  lat- 
ter view  was  the  more  likely.  All  of  the  sisters  stood  in 
the  greatest  awe  of  Mother  Espiritu,  an  awe  to  which  Maria 
Pia  herself  subscribed. 

For  days  Pia  remained  ill  with  dread.  As  she  filed  in 
and  out  of  the  chapel  her  step  hurried  in  passing  Mother 
Salome,  her  head  always  bent  so  as  not  to  meet  her  eyes. 
She  was  occupied  now  every  moment  of  the  day,  her  one 
effort  being  to  seem  as  self-effacive  as  possible.  But  she 
could  not  suppose  herself  lost  among  the  thirty  sisters 
since  she  was  not  yet  "clothed"  and  was  conscious  that  her 
grey  dress  marked  her  apart  from  the  habit  of  the  others. 
The  sisters  wore  a  black  robe,  their  scapular,  mantle  and 
veil  white  and  upon  their  breasts  a  copper  image. 

In  the  refectory  the  Prioress  recited  grace  with  responses 
from  the  sisters,  following  which  the  reader  ascended  to 
the  high  reading  desk  and  read  aloud  verses  of  Holy  Scrip- 
ture. This  finished,  all  responded  Deo  Gratias  and  each 
took  her  accustomed  seat.  Mother  Espiritu  sat  on  a  rush- 
bottomed  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  Mother  Salome 
at  the  foot  with  the  sisters  and  novices  ranged  along  be- 
tween on  low  forms,  the  latter  with  the  novice  mistress. 
The  walls  of  the  refectory  were  unadorned  except  by  an 
image  of  the  Sacred  Bambino  under  a  glass  globe  beneath 
which  a  tallow  dip  burned  in  a  cup.  On  the  long  uncovered 
deal  table  were  set  their  tin  cups  and  plates,  and  the  noise; 
of  them  and  the  novices'  shrill  voices,  now  allowed  their 
apportionment  of  speech,  were  deafening. 

283 


284       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

Pia  kept  her  eyes  on  her  plate  during  meals,  never  asked 
for  more  and  glanced  only  furtively  at  the  foot  of  the  table. 
She  could  give  no  explanation  of  Mother  Salome's  silence. 
At  times  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  might,  all  unconsciously, 
have  made  a  friend  of  the  Reverend  Mother.  But  during 
supper  she  had  often  noticed  ire  in  her  eyes,  when  the 
voices  became  too  loud,  and  she  hammered  on  the  table 
with  her  wooden  gavel  to  restore  order.  At  such  times  she 
was  aware  that  Mother  Espiritu  possessed  a  temper  like  a 
black  fire  which  burned  within,  consuming  her  even  while 
she  remained  outwardly  controlled.  And  when  she  ex- 
changed glances  with  the  Superior  her  eyes  sparkled  like 
ice  in  the  sun  and  were  no  more  sympathetic. 

A  lay-sister  served  them  at  meals  and  if  guilty  of  9.ny 
misdemeanor  had,  as  her  penance,  to  eat  her  supper  off  the 
floor  in  full  view  of  the  refectory.  This  was  a  penance 
which  Pia  had  sometimes,  in  a  nightmare,  dreamt  she  had  to 
perform.  Supper  was  composed  of  bread  and  wine,  some- 
times artichokes  or  lettuces  from  the  garden  and  nuts  and 
figs,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  day  there  was  a  dish  part 
potage,  part  stew,  not  unlike  the  French  working  man's 
pot-au-feu  but  more  highly  seasoned.  The  food  was  ex- 
cellent but  scanty.  Following  this  grace  was  repeated  and 
they  once  more  filed  out. 

After  supper  one  of  them  recited  the  Litany  of  Our  Lady 
and  later  came  recreation  which,  as  the  evenings  were  now 
fine,  was  passed  out  of  doors  in  the  courtyard  or  cloistered 
garden. 

Recreation  was  not  an  hour  that  Pia  looked  forward  to 
unless  allowed  to  wander  alone  in  the  kitchen  garden.  Here 
frogs  and  crickets  took  up  their  song,  and  she  could  enjoy 
the  fragrance  of  the  evening  air  in  peace  and  perhaps  ex- 
change a  few  remarks  with  Hipolito.  She  liked  to  watch 
the  fenestration  of  the  convent  take  on  shape  as  each  win- 
dow revealed  a  light  and  oblongs  of  colour  appeared 
through  the  dark.  It  could  not  be  said  that  she  found  the 
sisters  "companionable."  There  was  always  a  certain  jeal- 
ousy as  to  who  should  accompany  the  Reverend  Mother 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       285 

on  her  tour  of  the  garden,  which  she  usually  settled  by 
making  it  alone.  Pia  admired  her  temperance,  her  serenity 
and  goodness,  and  above  all  her  brain.  Mother  Salome  too 
she  might  have  cared  for  had  the  sister  not  been  otherwise 
disposed  toward  her.  Sister  Amparo  was  always  at  work 
and  the  other  sisters  seemed  equally  divided  between  two 
types :  those  who  were  so  intent  upon  saving  their  souls 
that  they  took  little  account  of  what  passed  about  them; 
and  the  second  or  more  ordinary  type,  the  good,  rather 
stupid  sisters  who  went  through  life  without  an  idea  and 
were  too  mentally  deficient  to  interest  an  intelligent  and 
spirited  girl.  These  sisters  represented  the  ruck  of  an 
order,  slow,  faithful,  painstaking. 

The  novices  were  just  a  group  of  chattering  children,  up- 
setting with  foolish  effusions  that  bored  her.  Pia  found 
there  was  conventual  "small  talk"  just  as  there  had  been 
in  the  world  only  this  seemed  even  more  banal  and  bore- 
some. 

During  this  time  John  grew,  developed  and  showed  signs 
of  soon  outgrowing  his  environment.  Pia  had  supposed 
he  would  be  very  like  his  father  but  by  some  untoward  cir- 
cumstance he  seemed,  day  by  day,  to  resemble  her  more 
closely,  in  colouring,  feature  and  expression.  He  was  so  ap- 
parently her  own  flesh  and  blood  she  could  never  adopt  him 
as  the  offspring  of  another  and  expect  to  convince  even  the 
most  credulous. 

It  was  on  Shrove  Tuesday  that  the  blow  descended. 

It  was  now  so  long  since  Mother  Salome  had  had  her  talk 
that  Pia  had  given  it  little  thought  for  some  weeks.  Judg- 
ing herself  immune  she  had  gone  about  her  business,  mo- 
mentarily happy  when  she  forgot  the  future  in  the  health 
and  contentment  of  her  boy  who  so  far  had  not  suffered  in 
the  conditions  of  his  birth. 

Pia  had  tied  up  her  skirt  and  had  been  weeding  flower 
beds  and  had  gone  to  the  dispensary  for  some  sulphur  to 
protect  some  of  the  delicate  begonias  against  insects,  when 
she  was  stopped  in  the  passage  by  Sister  Blanca.  Sister 
Blanca  was  in  the  corridor,  carrying  supplies  of  fresh  linen 


286       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

that  had  been  dried  over  the  lavender  bushes  and  were  fra- 
grant of  its  flowers.  Her  manner  was  strangly  excited. 

"You  are  wanted  at  once,  Maria  Pia,"  she  said.  "I've 
just  been  to  your  cell." 

"By  whom?" 

"The  Reverend  Mother.  She  is  waiting  for  you  in  her 
sitting-room.  There  are  visitors  in  the  parlor." 

"Visitors?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"I  don't  know.     How  should  I  ?    They  are  two  men." 

Pia's  heart  fell. 

What  two  men  out  of  all  the  world  had  come  to  see  her, 
she  could  not  imagine.  Yet  she  scented  catastrophe.  It 
was  useless  to  ask  Sister  Blanca  to  describe,  for  beyond  the 
fact  of  their  being  men  the  simple  lay  sister  was  useless  as 
expositor.  Pia  had  the  shrewdness  to  make  her  way  to 
Mother  Espiritu's  sitting-room  through  the  garden  and  so 
avoid  passing  the  open  parlour  door. 

The  Prioress  was  not  in  the  habit  of  being  kept  waiting ; 
there  was  no  time  for  her  to  formulate  any  plan.  It  was 
Jordan  Buel  who  had  come  for  her,  probably  with  his  law- 
yer. She  did  not  feel  that  Mr.  Buel  was  a  particularly  for- 
midable opponent.  And  if  he  thought  to  force  her  to  leave 
the  convent  he  would  find  her  will  as  indomitable  as  his 
own.  With  thfs  thought  Pia  tapped  on  the  Prioress's  door 
who  bade  her  enter. 

The  perfect  order  of  her  sitting-room  had  a  calming  effect 
upon  Helena.  Nothing  could  go  wrong,  it  seemed  to  her,  in 
surroundings  of  such  spotless  disposition.  There  were 
bowls  on  her  writing-table  filled  with  rose  petals  gathered 
from  last  summer  which  gave  out  a  faint  scent,  and  on  the 
ledge  of  the  open  window  was  an  apple  stuck  with  cloves 
which  added  spice  to  the  current  of  air  that  crept  in  from 
the  garden. 

Mother  Espiritu  remained  motionless,  her  repose  scarcely 
less  than  that  of  the  plaster  Virgin. 

"Come  in  my  daughter,"  she  said. 


287 

Pia  closed  the  door  behind  her  obediently  and  advanced 
to  the  centre  of  the  room.  Though  her  face  was  resolute 
her  eyes  suggested  fright. 

"There  are  two  men  here  who  wish  to  speak  to  you  " 

"Tome?" 

"Yes." 

"But  I  think  you  know,  mother,  that  I  do  not  wish  to  see 
anyone  from  the  world." 

"I  know,  my  dear.  But  this  is  different.  Mother  Sa- 
lome tells  me  they  are  detectives.  They  are  searching  for  a 
young  woman  who  is  lost  in  the  world.  But  what  is  the 
matter?" 

It  was  the  expression  of  blind  terror  that  crossed  Pia's 
face  that  made  the  Superior  pause.  Her  nerves  had  tricked 
her.  Her  resistance  was  gone. 

"Sit  down,  my  dear." 

She  indicated  the  chair  before  her.  Pia's  knees  were  no 
longer  able  to  support  her.  She  had  risen  early  that  morn- 
ing, her  breakfast  had  been  of  the  slightest,  and  part  of  the 
night  had  been  passed  in  prayer.  In  the  Order  of  the  Per- 
petual Adoration,  someone  of  the  sisters  was  always  at 
prayer  in  the  chapel,  in  which  way  the  continuous  supplica- 
tion had  not  been  broken  in  over  a  hundred  years.  And  of 
late  Pia  had  taken  her  place  with  the  others,  often  rising 
at  midnight  to  relieve  a  sister  who  had  prayed  through  the 
earlier  hours. 

The  Reverend  Mother  watched  her  shrewdly  now  as  she 
spoke,  her  eyes  unfathomable,  her  face  without  animation 
but  for  the  slightly  moving  lips. 

"The  detectives  have  received  permission  to  investigate 
the  convents  of  Spain.  The  country,  only  too  anxious  to 
lift  any  impression  of  complicity,  has  allowed  them  to  make 
positive  that  the  young  woman  is  not  hidden.  They  have 
already  seen  everyone  in  the  Convent  but  you,  my  daugh- 
ter." " 

There  was  a  pause.  Maria  Pia  moistened  her  lips.  She 
was  about  to  say  something  and  then  decided  it  was  useless. 
The  room  was  revolving  about  her.  She  supposed  that  these 


288       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

were  men  anxious  to  win  her  father's  reward  and  she  had 
always  fancied  the  sanctity  of  the  cloister  was  unassailable 
against  investigation. 

At  length  she  broke  out: 

"This  is  Mother  Salome's  doing.  She  has  never  liked 
me.  She  has  attempted  in  other  ways  to  bring  about  my 
removal.  But  they  were  not  effectual  and  so  she  has  taken 
more  drastic  steps." 

"My  daughter,  your  attack  upon  Mother  Salome  is  totally 
without  provocation,  and  I  cannot  allow  you  to  make  any 
such  remarks  upon  so  excellent  and  blameless  a  member  of 
our  order.  Mother  Salome  is  in  no  way  connected  with  the 
visit  of  the  detectives." 

"Then  why  have  they  come  here  ?" 

"I  can't  answer  for  that." 

"But  Mother  Salome  has  seen  them?" 

"Certainly,  at  my  request.  All  of  the  sisters  have  been 
summoned  and  appeared  in  the  parlour  before  them.  You 
are  the  only  one  they  have  not  seen.  They  are  looking  for 
an  American  girl  who  is  thought  to  have  been  stolen." 

"Of  course.  And  Mother  Salome  has  told  them  there's 
one  here  who  corresponds  to  their  descriptions.  She  has 
given  me  away  to  them.  It's  unjust.  It's  .  .  .  it's  criminal. 
For  months  I've  done  the  very  best  that  I  could  to  serve 
God  and  maintain  the  dignity  of  the  order.  I  worked  and 
prayed.  I  have  fasted  with  the  others.  There  isn't  a  rule 
I  haven't  followed  no  matter  how  hard  it  came.  Do  you 
think  Mother  Salome  noticed?  If  she  did  it  only  irritated 
her.  She  thinks  I'm  different  from  the  others  and  she 
wants  me  to  go.  I've  always  known  that  was  her  real  dis- 
position and  that  we  were  enemies  from  the  very  first. 
Hatred  is  evil  enough  from  me,  but  how  much  worse  is  it 
in  a  sister  of  professed  vows  ?" 

"I  shall  exact  penance  from  you  for  such  wicked  thoughts, 
Maria  Pia,  and  for  your  unrestrained  speech.  You  must  re- 
member where  you  are.  I  don't  allow  such  charges.  Mo- 
ther Salome  has  told  them  nothing.  They  know  the  sisters 
and  the  novices  only  by  their  names  in  the  order,  not 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       289 

those  in  the  world.  They  do  not  know  there  is  an  American 
girl  here  yet.  But  they  are  waiting  for  you  there,  in  the 
parlour.  They  will  not  leave  until  they  have  seen  you.  So 
go  in  to  them  now." 

Her  voice  as  she  spoke  was  colder  than  Pia  had  ever 
known  it  and  each  word  possessed  an  edge.  And  the  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes,  which  had  seemed  veiled  upon  her  en- 
trance, now  glowed.  There  was  a  slight  colour  in  her  cheeks, 
the  pale  flame  of  anger.  She  knew  that  by  her  uncertain 
temper  she  had  accomplished  nothing  except  that  she  had 
turned  the  Prioress  against  her.  She  and  Mother  Salome 
were  not  closely  attuned  and  the  latter  was  jealous  of  the 
Prioress's  power,  but  the  Reverend  Mother,  if  cold,  was  at 
least  just  and  she  would  permit  no  abuse. 

Pia  held  to  the  back  of  the  chair;  she  cast  an  appealing 
glance  at  the  Superior,  but  her  eyes  were  on  the  ivory  cruci- 
fix and  she  knew  she  could  obtain  no  comfort.  She  had, 
at  different  times  during  the  past  two  years  of  her  incarcera- 
tion, expected  this  to  happen  and  now  at  last  she  was  found 
out.  She  managed  to  pull  herself  to  her  feet.  She  steadied 
herself  against  the  physical  whirling  that  was  reflected  in 
her  brain.  Her  head  seemed  light  and  bloodless.  She  felt 
all  at  once  as  immaterial  as  a  feather. 

It  was  her  hour.  She  would  face  it.  She  was  saying 
good-bye  to  everything  a  decent  woman  cherishes.  Reti- 
cence, anonymity,  the  pleasures  of  a  retired  and  respected 
life  would  be  cabled  to  the  uttermost  quarters  of  the  globe. 
She  was  to  be  established  as  notorious,  infamous,  peccant. 
If  that  was  the  order  she  would  take  her  lashings  with  her 
head  up.  With  her  eyes  raised,  her  underlip  held  firm 
against  her  teeth,  she  crossed  the  room,  placed  her  hand  on 
the  knob  and  turned  it. 

"Stop!" 

It  was  the  Reverend  Mother  who  spoke. 

For  a  moment  she  remained  irresolute.  Then  she  turned. 
The  Prioress  had  risen,  the  expression  on  her  face  was  one 
she  had  never  seen  before.  Her  swift  dexterous  fingers  had 
torn  at  her  habit,  unbuttoning  the  neck  band,  loosening  the 


29o       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

cord  about  her  waist.  While  Maria  Pia  remained  stunned 
the  Prioress  had  removed  the  black  habit,  her  scapular  and 
veil. 

"Be  quick,"  she  said  as  Pia  stood  motionless  watching 
her.  "Give  me  your  dress  and  cap.  And  put  on  mine." 

"But  Reverend  Mother,"  Pia  repeated  aghast. 

"Don't  speak.     Obey  me." 

Silently  she  unbuttoned  Pia's  dress.  A  moment  later  she 
had  assumed  it  and  covered  her  head  with  the  cap.  Pia, 
understanding  at  last  her  intentions,  lay  hold  of  the  dis- 
carded habit  with  the  reverend  hands  of  a  sinner  allowed  to 
touch  a  divine  relic. 

"Go  into  the  chapel.  Remain  at  prayer  before  the  altar 
until  I  give  my  consent  for  you  to  leave." 

Without  another  word  Mother  Espiritu  opened  the  door 
that  admitted  to  the  convent  parlour  and  went  in  to  face  the 
questions  of  the  American  detective  and  his  interpreter. 

In  the  chapel  Pia  threw  herself  upon  the  altar  steps  and 
broke  into  a  torrent  of  tears.  She  felt  utterly  unworthy 
of  the  sacrifice  which  the  Reverend  Mother  was  making. 
For  her  sake  this  saintly  woman,  who  had  never  lied  in  her 
life,  was  repudiating  her  position.  She  who  for  many  years 
had  held  to  the  Strict  Observance,  and  who  had  not  con- 
versed with  any  man  of  the  world  except  through  a  grating 
while  she  remained  unseen,  was  now  answering  their  ques- 
tions and  answering  them  untruthfully.  Knowing  the*Rev- 
erend  Mother's  abhorrence  of  lies,  she  wondered  what  pen- 
ance she  could  ever  do  that  would  satisfy  her  against  her 
present  action.  She  had  the  temperament  of  a  cenobite 
and,  finding  her  own  order  too  relaxed  to  satisfy  her  aspir- 
ing spirit,  she  had  inflicted  upon  herself  observances  fol- 
lowed only  by  the  Discalced  Carmelites,  even  while  she  had 
advised  the  sisters  not  to  follow  her  example.  And  it  was 
she  who,  renouncing  her  clothing  for  the  dress  of  the  world, 
now  stood  before  the  detectives  and  endeavored  to  satisfy 
their  curiosity. 

Pia  remained  shaken  by  emotion.  The  reaction  which 
had  set  in  was  so  strong  that  she  already  regretted  the  Su- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       291 

perlor's  sacrifice.  She  knew  the  Prioress  would  attempt 
to  atone  for  her  deed  for  months  to  come  with  abstention 
and  mortification.  The  objective  of  years  she  felt  had  been 
swept  away  by  these  lies,  and  from  the  depths  of  her  har- 
assed soul  Pia  cried  out : 

"Amiable  Mother,  help  to  make  me  worthy  of  this  great 
and  undeserved  sacrifice.  Help  me  never  to  forget  in  the 
years  to  come  this  action  of  the  saintly  mother.  May  I 
never  again  be  unhappy  and  dissatisfied  or  irreligious  who 
have  received  so  great  a  proof  of  love,  affection  and  self- 
lessness. Twice  has  the  Reverend  Mother  saved  me  frorrr 
disgrace,  and  may  I,  by  becoming  worthy  of  her  action, 
repay  her,  however  poorly,  for  her  goodness,  sanctity  and 
saintliness.  Never  again  shall  I  doubt  the  power  of  religion 
or  speak  with  impatience  of  those  who  consecrate  their 
lives  to  God." 

She  remained  prostrate  on  the  altar  steps,  her  sobs  dimin- 
ishing, her  entire  consciousness  abased.  She  did  not  lift  her 
head,  and  though  words  had  left  her,  her  prayer  continued 
in  the  force  of  her  oblation,  that  was  now  expressed  in  pal- 
pitant waves  of  thankfulness  that  thrilled.  Had  the  Rev- 
erend Mother  asked  her  then  to  take  the  vows  she  would 
have  done  so  without  objection. 

At  that  moment  steps  were  heard  outside  on  the  stone 
floor.  It  was  the  Prioress  with  the  detective  and  the  Span- 
ish interpreter. 

"We  have  seen  all  the  inmates  of  the  convent  now  ?" 

"All." 

Pia  realised  they  were  watching  her  and  did  not  move. 

"And  you  can  swear  that  the  American  girl  is  not  among 
them?" 

"Naturally  I  swear  to  nothing.  You  have  seen  them  all. 
If  you  have  not  found  her  she  cannot  be  here." 

"May  I  speak  to  the  Superior  ?" 

"No.  She  is  at  prayer  as  you  see  and  is  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed. If  I  can  be  of  no  further  service  to  you,  you  will' 
excuse  me." 


292       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"Thank  you,  sister.  The  American  says  he  is  very  sorry 
to  have  troubled  you.  Good  day." 

"Good  day." 

Pia  did  not  raise  her  head  until  she  felt  the  Prioress's 
hand  upon  her  shoulder.  Then  she  rose  swiftly,  made  her 
way  across  the  passage  to  Mother  Espiri  s  sitting-room. 

The  detectives  had  gone.  The  great  moment  of  excite- 
ment had  been  passed  without  mishap.  Pia,  always  im- 
pulsive and  emotionally  inclined,  felt  her  eyes  filling  again. 
In  a  moment  she  was  once  more  quivering.  She  threw  her- 
self on  her  knees  and  kissed  the  Prioress's  hand  while  cov- 
ering it  with  scalding  tears. 

"Reverend  Mother — how  can  I  repay  you?" 

"By  thrusting  hate  out  of  your  heart,  my  child.  By  be- 
ing utterly  ashamed  of  your  wicked  tongue  and  your  re- 
marks about  Mother  Salome.  She  has  never  been  what  you 
say  but  a  zealous  server  of  the  Lord." 

"I'll  ask  her  pardon." 

"It  is  not  necessary.     Merely  learn  to  pray." 

"I'll  take  my  vows  whenever  you  wish,  Reverend 
Mother." 

"Not  for  the  present.  Now  rise.  And  put  on  your 
dress." 

The  Prioress  had  disengaged  her  hand  from  Pia's  fervent 
grip  and  removed  her  garments  with  a  certain  distaste  as 
though  she  could  not  reclaim  her  own  clothing  quickly 
enough.  As  she  stepped  out  of  it  in  her  sleeved  camisole 
cut  modestly  high  in  the  neck,  Pia  looked  with  pity  at  the 
beauty  of  bared  throat.  The  line  was  pure  white  and  with- 
out break  where  the  neck  gained  the  shoulder,  and  the  small, 
beautifully  formed  head,  little  ears  and  clear,  ascetic  profile 
now  seen  in  their  beauty  for  the  first  time.  The  Prioress 
appeared  oddly  shy  and  like  a  school-girl  under  Pia's  scru- 
tiny, ashamed  of  her  thick  hair,  now  mutilated,  cut  short  to 
her  head  and  turning  the  color  of  wood  ashes. 

Pia  remembered  what  Hipolito,  the  half-witted  gar- 
dener, had  told  her,  that  Mother  Espiritu  was  of  the  aris- 
tocracy of  Spain  and  belonged  to  one  of  its  proudest  fami- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       293 

lies.  She  had  entered  the  convent  as  a  girl  and  taken  the 
heaviest  vows.  Pia  had  once  asked  Sister  Amparo  if  this 
were  so  and  she  had  told  her  it  was  an  unwritten  law  of 
the  convent  never  to  speak  the  name  by  which  one  was 
known  in  the  world,  or  to  give  any  information  about  one 
of  the  sisterhood.  Mother  Espiritu  was  Mother  Espiritu 
and  that  was  all  that  one  need  know. 

As  she  watched  the  Prioress  assume  her  clothing  she 
knew  the  gardener's  speech  was  more  than  possible.  He 
had  said  she  was  a  Duquessa.  And  Pia  had  at  all  times 
been  aware  of  the  woman  of  breeding  as  well  as  of  sanc- 
tity. 

"Reverend  Mother,"  she  said,  "will  you  tell  me  why  you 
have  done  this  thing?" 

The  Prioress  had  replaced  scapular  and  veil  and  now 
seemed  infinitely  more  at  ease.  No  longer  a  shy  woman, 
but  one  of  good  works,  fearless,  of  power,  with  the  rank  of 
a  grandee  of  Spain. 

"I  wanted  to  keep  open  the  opportunity  for  you  to  go 
back  into  the  world,  my  daughter,  if  possible  without  dis- 
grace." 

"But  how — how  did  you  know?" 

The  Prioress  was  seated  before  her  writing-table;  her 
dark  glowing  eyes  looked  through  the  supplicant  before  her 
as  though  through  a  glass,  but  she  gave  no  answer.  Pia 
had  never  seen  a  newspaper  in  the  cloister  yet  she  felt  that 
Mother  Espiritu  had  never  been  in  doubt  as  to  her  identity. 

"But  why  did  you  think  I  wished  to  return  ?" 

"Because  you  have  not  a  vocation.  I  would  be  both  blind 
and  wilful  if  I  were  to  pretend  you  had." 

"Then  you  do  not  wish  me  here  ?" 

"You  belong  in  the  world." 

"Mother,  you  understand  everything.  How  do  you  read 
me  so  well  ?" 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Prioress'  eyes  travelled  over 
the  garden  and  when  she  answered  she  did  not  look  at  Pia. 

"Because,"  she  said  gently,  "you  and  I  are  very  much 
alike.  I  have  no  vocation,  either.  I  entered  the  convent 


294       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

when  very  young,  and  having  made  a  mistake  I  took  oath 
to  myself  that  I  would  not  fail.  I  have  endured  years  of 
fighting,  but  the  Lord  has  listened  to  me  and  for  some  time 
now  I  have  been  resigned  to  the  life.  I  pray  and  strive 
never  to  be  one  of  the  indolent  members  of  the  order,  and 
when  in  fear  of  it  I  exercise  fresh  mortification  of  the 
spirit.  But  I  wouldn't  have  you  repeat  my  experience. 
You  are  younger  than  I  am." 

"But  you're  happy  now  ?"  Pia  asked. 

"I  am  at  peace." 

"I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  permitted  you  to  make 
this  sacrifice,  Reverend  Mother.  You  are  always  going  to 
regret  it.  I  can't  blame  myself  enough." 

The  Prioress  smiled,  and  her  expression  was  more  heart- 
breaking than  any  tears  Pia  had  ever  seen. 

"I  did  what  seemed  to  me  best.  Every  truth  is  not  to  be 
applauded,  my  daughter,  and  every  lie  is  not  to  be  punished. 
Now  go  about  your  offices." 

Pia  left  the  sitting-room,  feeling  numb  as  though  every 
portion  of  her  body  had  been  exposed  to  a  merciless  flagel- 
lation. She  remained  at  once  the  most  humble  and  pains- 
taking aspirant  of  the  order. 

To  Pia,  who  was  easily  encouraged,  it  seemed  that  hav- 
ing won  the  partisanship  of  Mother  Espiritu  that  life  in 
the  cloister  would  not  be  so  difficult  to  endure.  It  had  been 
the  total  absence  of  companionship  or  distraction  hereto- 
fore that  had  palled.  But  since  she  had  so  intelligent  and 
sympathetic  a  friend  time  would  pass  rapidly. 

When  the  day  of  celebrating  the  Mass  of  Saint  Trinidad 
arrived  Pia  thought  to  speak  to  Mother  Espiritu  following 
vespers.  She  had  not  seen  the  Superior  since  Shrove  Tues- 
day to  speak  to  and  she  regretted  having  no  further  words 
about  what  had  passed.  At  vespers  they  followed  the  office 
of  Saint  Trinidad  which  began  with  psalm,  lesson  and 
hymn,  followed  by  a  Canticle,  prayer  and  responsory. 
Mother  Espiritu's  voice  while  intoning  was  warm,  a  deep 
contralto,  and  the  plain  chant  delivered  by  Mother  Salome 
was  in  her  high  unmelodic  voice.  When  it  was  over  they 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       295 

filed  out  two  by  two.  As  Pia  passed  the  Reverend  Mother 
she  hesitated  and  the  Superior's  eyes  rested  on  her.  But 
her  face  was  totally  without  expression ;  Pia  had  often  seen 
it  before,  the  eyes  without  recognition.  She  passed  by 
without  even  a  sign  of  having  known  her  and  Pia  realised 
that  any  dreams  of  companionship  which  she  had  enter- 
tained were  fruitless.  For  a  moment  only  Mother  Espiritu 
had  raised  her  veil  and  the  Prioress  and  the  applicant  had 
been  women  together.  That  moment  had  passed  and  would 
not  return.  In  the  future  Maria  Pia  would  be  in  no  way 
separated  from  the  others,  merely  one  of  the  flock  striving 
for  soul's  salvation. 

Dissatisfied  and  still  unconvinced  Pia  strove  to  attract  the 
Prioress  to  her  again  by  adding  to  her  duties.  She  studied 
needlework  diligently,  continued  her  care  in  the  garden, 
plucking  the  most  beautiful  blooms  and  arranging  the  altar 
vases.  Surely  Mother  Espiritu  saw  the  difference  in  her 
assembling  of  bouquets  to  those  tight  little  withered  nose- 
gays which  Sister  Blanca  plucked.  But  if  she  did  she  gave 
no  sign  of  approval  and  Pia,  who  lacked  constancy  and  con- 
centration unless  they  called  forth  some  form  of  approba- 
tion, became  tired  and  once  more  relapsed  into  listlessness. 

The  confines  of  conventual  life  became  more  rigid  and 
irksome.  Her  thoughts  strayed  more  frequently  to  the 
idea  of  freedom  and  independence.  The  occasional  letters 
from  her  family  which  were  all  she  encouraged  were  now 
read  with  ever  increasing  avidity.  But  when  her  restless 
spirit  was  in  its  most  recalcitrant  mood  she  could  think  of 
John  playing  at  her  feet  and  realise  the  obstacle  to  freedom. 
There  was  no  return  to  the  world  possible  for  her  with 
John,  now  that  his  resemblance  was  branded  in  every  fea- 
ture. And  without  him  the  world  would  be  a  wilderness. 
At  such  times  the  realisation  of  her  entrapment  was  com- 
plete. 

She  had  come  that  afternoon  to  the  convent  graveyard 
and  looked  at  the  neat  little  mounds,  not  unlike  the  narrow, 
uncomfortable  beds  within,  each  spread  with  a  coverlet  of 
sod.  Yes,  this  was  where  she  would  one  day  be  laid  to 


296       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

rest  when  her  disobedient  and  reckless  spirit  was  at  last 
curbed  forever.  She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  mounds  with 
her  arm  around  John,  her  mind  straying  back  to  the  past, 
as  she  had  for  some  time  since  ceased  to  look  into  the  fu- 
ture. It  was  just  a  question  now  how  long  before  she 
yielded  to  this  inner  battle  and  admitted  herself  conquered. 

With  tear-filled  eyes  she  cried  impatiently:  "I  don't 
regret  it!  I  don't  regret  it!"  and  tightened  her  hold  upon 
her  son  as  though  in  that  way  to  ask  his  forgiveness  for  the 
gifts  that  had  been  withheld  him.  She  remained  until  sun- 
set, then  recalling  her  duties  she  made  her  way  back  to  her 
cell.  In  her  room  she  threw  herself  before  the  brass  cruci- 
fix murmuring : 

"Miserere  mei,  Domine." 


XXXIV 

THE  sister's  voice  from  behind  her  impenetrable  veil  con- 
tinued even,  monotonous,  deliberative.  Half-formulated 
hopes,  urgent,  clamourous,  claimed  Sefton's  mind;  made 
him  wish  to  know  only  certain  facts,  but  the  emotionless 
voice  was  not  interrupted,  and  he  allowed  her  to  go  on 
until  she  reached  a  full  stop. 

"You  don't  mean,"  he  cried,  "that  Miss  Cass  has  become 
one  of  the  order?" 

She  hesitated,  as  though  unaccustomed  to  replying  to 
questions.  But  presently  she  answered. 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that." 

"She's  alive?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  can  she  be  told  at  once  that  I  am  here.  If  she 
refuses  to  see  me  I  will  admit  myself  defeated.  Of  course, 
her  first  impulse  will  be  to  refuse.  But  if  you  tell  her  my 
reasons  for  coming,  that  will  make  a  difference.  And,  after 
all,"  he  added,  "I  know  the  only  thing  you  wish  for  her  is 
happiness." 

"Yes,  I  wish  only  happiness  for  her." 

"Then  will  my  message  be  sent  at  once?" 

"No,  not  at  once." 

"And  why  not?" 

"She  is  no  longer  here." 

"Miss  Cass  has  left  the  convent?" 

"Yes,  six  months  ago." 

"Is  she  married?" 

The  sister  shook  her  head.  Before  those  in  the  order 
she  might  be  severe.  Sefton  felt  indisputably  that  she 
would  be,  but  in  the  company  of  those  of  the  world  she 
was  almost  humble. 

"Tell  me  where  she  is  now." 

297 


298       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"I  can't  do  so  without  permission." 

She  rose  and  left  the  room,  to  consult  Mother  Espiritu, 
he  supposed.  He  began  to  pace  the  little  parlour.  He  moved 
to  the  window  and  looked  out,  and  then  back  to  the  door. 
A  moment  later,  hearing  the  sister's  heavy  footsteps  in  her 
rope  sandals,  he  seated  himself  before  her  bulk  filled  the 
door.  She  removed  a  strip  of  paper  from  her  sleeve  and 
mutely  offered  it  to  him.  In  a  delicate  and  exact  hand,  an 
address  had  been  traced  across  it,  the  ink  blotted  with  col- 
oured sand.  He  read :  "Sefiora  Rosita  Guzman  y  Morales, 
Calle  Major,  San  Anselmo,  Huesca." 

"What  name  is  this?"  he  asked. 

"The  senorita  is  known  under  that  name  at  present." 

For  a  moment  he  doubted  if  there  had  not  been  some 
mistake.  Was  this  one  more  cul-de-sac,  on  which  he  was 
embarking  after  so  many  .weeks  of  suspense  and  disap- 
pointment ?  Could  Rosita  be  Miss  Cass  ?  He  consulted  the 
paper  once  more.  Suddenly  it  seemed  more  likely.  Hel- 
ena's fine  sense  of  histrionics  would  not  permit  her  to  take 
an  undistinguished  name,  and  there  was  irony  in  this 
choice. 

"Whom  have  I  to  thank  for  this  intervention?" 

The  sister  lowered  her  head  slightly. 

"No  importa,"  she  replied. 

"But  it  is  to  me,"  he  averred.  "It  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence in  the  world.  You  have  been  a  friend  to  Miss  Cass, 
and  to  me  in  putting  all  thoughts  of  creed  and  your  order 
aside  and  thinking  only  of  our  future.  Can't  I  know  your 
name  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  He  knew  that  keeping  their  identities 
unacknowledged  by  the  world  was  one  of  the  regulations, 
but  he  felt  that  her  mind,  curiously  non-subjective,  was 
embarrassed  by  any  direct  appeal. 

"Whom  shall  I  thank?"  he  asked. 

"Jesu,  Maria  y  Jose,"  she  said  simply. 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  removed  some  bills,  and 
placed  them  on  the  parlour  table.  He  saw  as  he  made  this 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       299 

gesture  that  her  hands  met  within  her  loose  sleeves.  He 
thought  she  was  about  to  refuse  his  present. 

"I  hope  this  will  be  of  some  use  to  the  order,"  he  said. 
"If  all  goes  well  this  is  not  the  last  time  you  will  hear  from 
me.  It  can  be  used  for  charity,  or  as  you  wish." 

The  sister  rang  the  silver  bell  again  and  the  portress 
appeared.  She  spoke  to  her  a  moment  in  an  undertone. 
Sister  Natividad  went  away  and  returned  carrying  a  col- 
oured drink  in  a  thick  tumbler  on  a  tray.  She  offered  it 
to  the  stranger. 

"You  will  have  a  warm  journey  before  you,"  the  sister 
said  by  way  of  invitation. 

Sefton  accepted  the  glass,  drank  the  tisane  obediently 
but  without  pleasure  and  then  replaced  it  on  the  table. 

"May  Mary  Most  Pure  guard  you,"  she  said. 

Then  he  turned  and  followed  Sister  Natividad  to  the 
door,  she  unlatched  it,  and  he  stepped  out  from  the  cool 
twilight  into  the  dazzling  sun  of  early  afternoon. 

On  his  way  back  to  the  village  Sefton  speculated  on  the 
identity  of  the  sister  who  had  remained  kindly,  inflexible 
and  anonymous.  Of  course  she  had  not  been  the  prioress, 
so  to  whom  had  he  spoken?  In  a  moment  he  realised  that 
beyond  doubt  she  was  Mother  Salome.  No  one  else  would 
have  made  the  statements  she  had  to  her  own  detriment. 
It  would  have  been  an  act  of  disloyalty  not  easily  con- 
doned upon  the  part  of  another  sister.  And  at  this  ex- 
planation he  marvelled  at  the  austerity  of  these  lonely 
women  in  their  self-immolation,  so  kindly  in  their  attitude 
toward  their  devotions,  so  pitiless  in  their  flagellation  of 
their  own  pride.  She  had  humilated  herself  toward  a 
stranger  as  a  means  of  penance  for  past  sins. 

He  explained  to  the  friendly  innkeeper  his  need  of 
leaving  Trinidad  at  once.  He  and  all  his  family  escorted 
him  to  the  door  and  stood  there  waving  farewell  as  he  was 
driven  away.  An  hour  later  he  had  boarded  the  train 
which  was  carrying  him  to  Lila. 

It  was  one  early  afternoon  that  Sefton  obtained  his  first 
glimpse  of  San  Anselmo.  The  hill  town  had  fastened  it- 


300       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

self  upon  the  flank  of  the  mountain,  finding  a  foothold  on 
its  precipitous  side  like  the  depository  of  some  nest  which 
a  courageous  yet  wary  bird  had  attempted  to  conceal.  The 
lower  reaches  were  cultivated  with  olives,  the  trees  cen- 
turies old,  their  thick  stems  twisted  and  interlaced,  each 
crowned  with  silky  grey  verdure.  They  grew  in  irregular 
ranks,  covering  the  inclines  with  undulations  of  a  single 
tone  of  grey  in  which  the  brilliant  afternoon  sunlight  wa- 
vered in  folds  of  heat. 

Sefton  put  down  his  field-glasses  after  a  moment's  scru- 
tiny and  contented  himself  with  seeing  only  what  the  eye 
took  in  unaided.  This  was  the  experience  of  a  lifetime,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  thrumming  excitement,  he  felt  the  elation 
of  the  connoisseur  of  life  who  quaffs  slowly  that  he  may 
savour  every  mouthful.  The  carter  addressed  occasional 
monosyllables  to  his  burro,  as  they  rattled  over  the  care- 
lessly paved  road  in  their  bobbing  tartana. 

Lush  grass  grew  rank  on  each  side  of  the  roadway  and 
the  slopes  were  spread  with  broom  and  yellow  gorse  and 
before  them  raced  a  stream  from  the  snow-covered  Pyre- 
nees. As  they  approached  the  bridge  which  spanned  the 
hurrying  water,  Sefton  noticed  Arabic  characters  still  de- 
cipherable in  the  arch.  He  found  himself  wondering  how 
much  of  the  engineering  done  in  his  own  country  would 
remain  intact  after  centuries  of  use. 

After  a  few  minutes  they  drew  up  in  the  shadow  of  a 
tamarind  tree;  the  peasant  felt  beneath  the  seat  for  the 
wine  skin,  and,  after  offering  it  to  the  traveller,  took  a 
deep  draught. 

"Holy  Mother !"  he  cried  to  the  sweating  burro.  "Would 
you  have  me  draw  you,  myself.  .  .  .  Anda  burro."  .  .  . 

And  they  continued  an  unhurried  pace.  His  jubilation 
was  not  to  be  contained.  The  certainty  that  he  was  about 
to  see  Helena  increased  with  every  half-mile.  Nowhere 
could  anyone  be  safer  from  detection,  since  even  the  dia- 
lect spoken  was  unintelligible  to  one  understanding  only 
Castilian.  The  nearest  train  was  a  journey  of  several  miles 
distance.  Strangers  never  came  here,  though  it  was  one 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       301 

of  the  loveliest  corners  of  Spain,  with  its  history  of  Iberian, 
Roman  and  Arabic  occupation ;  traits  of  each  race  had  left 
their  stamp  upon  the  present  people,  charming  and  un- 
spoilt by  any  contact  with  European  civilization.  The 
town  of  San  Anselmo  was  to  be  found  only  in  tne  largest 
and  most  detailed  maps;  as  none  of  the  roads  were  prac- 
ticable for  touring,  the  chances  were  the  best  that  she  might 
remain  unmolested  the  rest  of  her  life. 

During  the  last  half  hour,  while  the  little  burro  strug- 
gled with  his  load,  Sefton's  impressions  took  hold  of  him. 
On  the  various  levels  stretching  up  to  the  barren  heights 
crowned  by  a  ruined  castle  were  clustered  white  walls  and 
jumbled  tiled  roofs,  the  spire  of  its  church  lifted  serenely 
in  their  midst.  Occasionally  a  weather-stained  house  de- 
tached itself  from  its  more  cleanly  neighbours,  where  the 
walls  looked  like  musty  rinds  of  cheese.  Without  the  town 
trees  clung  everywhere  to  the  mountain-side  and  grape- 
vines threw  out  tendrils  at  support  wherever  a  trellis  was 
lacking. 

On  either  side  of  the  gateway  were  mammoth  fig  trees 
casting  grateful  pools  of  shade.  Here  they  were  stopped 
by  the  octoi  to  make  certain  they  were  not  attemptng  to 
carry  dutiable  provisions  within.  This  proved  a  mere  form, 
however,  and  Sefton's  word  was  sufficient  proof  that  he 
was  admissable  without  having  his  bag  opened. 

The  niiio,  who  ran  out  of  the  fonda  where  they  were 
directed,  made  fast  two  mules  harnessed  to  a  carreta  that 
plunged  and  snorted  at  the  burro.  They  showed  vicious 
teeth  and  tossed  their  heads  under  straw  hats  pierced  by 
their  long,  fuzzy  ears.  After  the  carter  had  seen  to  it  that 
they  were  unable  to  do  his  little  animal  any  injury,  he  fol- 
lowed the  child  into  the  fonda,  acting  as  interpreter  for 
Sefton,  arranged  for  his  pensionnaire,  received  his  money 
and  was  gone. 

After  being  refreshed,  Sefton  threw  himself  upon  the 
alcove  bed  in  his  half-darkened  room  and  lay  there  think- 
ing. Through  the  partially  shuttered  windows  that  opened 
onto  a  diminutive  balcony  a  breeze  was  stirring.  The  cool 


302       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

air  proved  the  sun  was  on  the  decline.  He  lay  waiting  for 
the  time  when  he  could  go  safely  in  search  of  Helena.  In 
a  few  hours  he  would  be  talking  to  her,  and  all  the  mys- 
teries and  vicissitudes  of  four  years  would  be  laid  bare. 
The  excitement  of  the  moment  was  not  to  be  curbed  by  its 
unreality. 

That  evening  he  inquired  where  the  Sefiora  Guzman 
lived,  and  at  his  question  was  treated  with  added  respect 
as  one  belonging  to  the  gente  de  rason.  He  set  out  in 
search  of  the  house  and  in  a  few  minutes  found  what  he 
judged  to  be  it,  in  the  angle  of  two  irregular  streets  form- 
ing a  gore.  The  house,  which  appeared  to  be  very  old, 
was  set  back  from  the  street  and  protected  by  a  wall  with 
an  arched  wicket-gate.  Even  in  the  failing  light  he  could 
see  its  surface  was  not  lime-washed  like  the  others,  but  a 
pale  mauve  to  harmonise  with  the  polychrome  tiles  and  to 
form  a  contrast  for  its  flowers.  He  sniffed  the  orange- 
blossoms  which  assailed  him  and  plucked  a  bansia  rose 
from  the  unruly  tangle  that  thrust  branches  cascading  with 
bloom  over  the  wall. 

He  remained  leaning  on  the  wicket-gate,  watching  the 
lighted  windows  discreetly  curtained.  For  a  moment  he 
felt  a  prompting  to  enter  at  once  and  demand  to  see  her, 
but  this  feeling  was  choked  down.  He  must  take  his  time 
and  use  discretion  now  that  he  had  reached  his  journey's 
end.  In  the  darkness  Sefton  heard  someone  at  work  in 
the  garden  with  a  watering-pot  and,  afraid  of  attracting 
attention,  moved  on  with  a  contraction  at  his  heart.  Was 
it  possible  that  only  a  garden  wall  separated  him  from  the 
mythical  Helena  Cass?  Could  it  be  that  after  months  de- 
voted to  search,  she  had  been  there  all  that  time,,  uncon- 
scious of  his  tumult — of  his  actual  existence. 

On  his  way  back  to  the  fonda  he  asked  himself  if  that 
person  in  shadow  could  have  been  she?  Or  had  the  nino 
misdirected  him?  The  desire  to  see  her  at  once  now 
claimed  him  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  thoughts.  He 
had  intended  not  to  present  himself  at  her  door  until  noon, 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       303 

but  at  eleven  o'clock  next  morning,  after  a  sleepless  night, 
the  suspense  had  to  be  ended. 

He  returned  to  the  wicket  of  the  night  before  and  rang 
the  bell.  A  broad-busted,  comely  serving-woman,  her  sleek 
dark  hair  in  place,  answered  his  ring.  As  she  came  down 
the  garden  walk  he  noticed  the  worn  flagging  had  been 
planted  with  grass,  so  that  a  border  of  fresh  green  out- 
lined each  stone,  giving  the  effect  of  a  vast  quilt  spread  for 
one  to  walk  on. 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  see?"  the  young  woman  asked, 
surprised  to  find  a  stranger,  but  nevertheless  matter-of- 
fact. 

"The  Sefiora  Guzman." 

The  woman  was  about  to  make  the  reply  that  she  would 
see  if  the  senora  was  at  home,  when  he  interrupted  her. 

"There  she  is  now,"  he  said.    "I  will  speak  to  her." 

And,  pushing  by  the  servant,  he  went  up  the  walk  to  the 
house,  where  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  lady  standing 
under  the  portico  at  the  door  half  hidden  in  vines.  He 
had  approached  without  her  hearing  him,  when  suddenly 
she  turned  and  they  confronted  each  other. 

It  was  Helena  Cass.  He  told  himelf  he  would  have 
known  her  anywhere.  The  amazing  vitality  of  her  eyes,  her 
entire  personality  changed,  and  yet  essentially  the  same. 
Out-of-door  life,  regular  duties,  the  invigorating  air,  had 
hardened  her  skin  like  the  firing  of  some  splendid  cera- 
mic. A  slight  colour,  like  a  rare  glaze,  overlay  her  fea- 
tures. And  the  continued  schooling  of  disappointment, 
obedience  and  sorrow  had  given  a  spiritual  cast  which  her 
wilful,  imperious  face  had  always  lacked. 

"You  are  the  Senora  Guzman?"  he  asked,  hat  in  hand. 

"Yes." 

"May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment  alone?"  he  inquired  as 
the  serving-woman  approached  them. 

She  gave  a  gesture  that  was  immediately  obeyed  and  the 
woman  went  within  the  house.  Neither  her  attention  nor 
his  had  relaxed  while  they  continued  to  hold  each  other 
by  the  challenge  of  their  eyes. 


XXXV 

SHE  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"To  marry  you." 

She  moved  impatiently.  The  upheaval  of  her  shoul- 
ders suggested  part  irritation,  part  insult.  He  was  stupid 
to  have  spoken  so  bluntly,  he  thought,  and  then  was  not  re- 
gretful. It  was  best  that  she  know  he  was  serious  from 
the  start. 

"You  must  be  mad.  I  won't  do  you  the  injustice  of 
supposing  you  are  attempting  to  be  offensive." 

Sefton  bowed. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  they  relapsed  into  silence,  yet  neither 
moved.  His  own  Castilian  had  been  acquired  by  study,  but 
there  was  no  doubting  the  natural  product  of  her  speech, 
fluid,  idiomatic,  its  beauty  in  no  way  marred.  Nothing 
was  more  natural  than  that  she  should  be  mistaken  for  a 
Madrilena.  He  paused.  Her  face  had  not  altered  its 
veiled  inscrutability.  It  could  not  have  kept  its  own  coun- 
sel better  had  she  rehearsed  her  defense.  His  heart  sank. 
Was  she  going  to  continue  this  farce  of  pretending  to  be 
someone  else  ?  He  felt  that  before  him  was  a  maize  through 
which  he  could  not  penetrate. 

He  noticed  beneath  a  rose  trellis  two  garden  chairs,  and 
now  led  the  way  thither.  She  seated  herself  with  that  ap- 
parent unconsciousness  of  her  raiment  of  one  who  has  been 
a  nun.  The  artist  in  Sefton  noticed  the  splendid  upright- 
ness of  her  body,  disposed  with  the  plastic  strength  yet 
relaxation  of  masterly  posing.  He  realised  that  such  ef- 
fects were  achieved  without  thought,  yet  they  impressed 
him  as  the  result  of  adroit  attitudinizing. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  he  asked. 

304 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       305 

"Certainly.    You  are  Jay  Sefton,  the  novelist." 

He  felt  absurdly  boyish  and  pleased.  He  wanted  to 
throw  his  hat  in  the  air,  but  attempted  to  retain  his  gravity. 

"Do  you  remember  where  we  met?" 

"Wasn't  it  at  Mrs.  Spencer-Mills,  in  East  Sixty-sixth 
Street  ?  She  was  giving  a  dance  that  night.  Am  I  right  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  didn't  we  dance  together?" 

"But  it  must  be  over  five  years  ago.  How  do  you  re- 
member me?  Haven't  I  changed?" 

"I  knew  you  directly.  And  Americans  never  change. 
They  merely  grow  older.  For  a  person  to  really  change 
presupposes  altering  one's  point  of  view,  and  Americans 
never  do  that.  They  redecorate  their  drawing-rooms  and 
they  revise  their  visiting-lists,  but  they  never  by  any 
chance  change  their  point  of  view.  It's  the  only  thing  they 
inherit  and  pass  on." 

She  spoke  with  a  concentrated  bitterness  in  which  every 
word  was  like  some  poisonous  essence.  At  that  moment 
a  small  boy  ran  on  sturdy  legs  around  the  angle  of  the 
house,  observed  the  stranger  for  the  first  time,  and  then 
disappeared  from  shyness. 

"What  is  it,  Juan?"  she  called. 

But  the  child  did  not  answer.  Sefton  was  conscious 
that  a  moment  of  tension  had  arrived,  and  since  she  did 
not  speak,  he  continued : 

"You  don't  ask  how  I  found  you?" 

"I  rather  make  a  point  of  never  asking  questions.  I 
think  people  always  tell  you  what  they  really  want  you  to 
know." 

When  he  finished  his  recital  of  the  months  he  spent  in 
tracing  her,  of  his  various  encounters  and  of  the  perpetual 
impasse  into  which  he  was  being  thrust,  her  expression 
changed  slightly.  Her  only  comment  was: 

"You  have  put  yourself  to  an  immense  amount  of  trou- 
ble. All  that  time  could  have  been  utilized  to  better  result 
if  you'd  written  another  book." 

"I  felt  I  could  never  write  again  until  I  found  you." 


306       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"Your  courtesy  even  outdoes  the  Spaniard." 

"But  I  am  sincere." 

"Don't  be  tiresome." 

Her  voice  was  without  reproof  and  yet  without  spon- 
taneity. He  studied  her  seeming  apathy.  Indifference,  he 
admitted  shamefacedly,  was  one  of  the  charms  which  al- 
ways roused  him.  He  noticed  the  listless  patrician  foot  in 
a  distinctly  worldly  slipper,  which  protruded  from  under 
her  well-made  dress.  Such  simple  authoritative  clothes 
were  not  run  up  by  any  mountain  dressmaker.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  she  was  in  communication  with  Paris  or 
Madrid.  He  supposed  that  upon  occasions  she  wished  to 
array  herself  for  her  own  satisfaction,  to  realise  she  was 
still  young  and  that  during  the  passing  years  she  had  been 
an  economist  with  her  looks. 

While  they  remained  there  the  serving-woman  prepared 
a  lunch  table  and  now  announced  its  readiness  out-of- 
doors.  Sefton  rose,  but  at  his  expression  of  frank  disap- 
pointment she  relented. 

"Will  you  join  us?"  she  asked.  "My  only  stipulations 
are  that  you  don't  forget  my  Spanish  name.  And,  of 
course,  you  won't  say  any  more  of  those  silly  things." 

She  went  away  and  returned  presently  with  Juan  at  her 
side.  Her  lips  were  parted  a  moment  before  she  spoke. 
She  was  watching  him  levelly  without  change  of  expres- 
sion. Then  she  said  quite  simply: 

"This  is  my  little  boy,  Mr.  Sefton." 

"How  are  you,  young  man?"  he  asked  in  Spanish. 

The  child  bowed  ceremoniously  over  his  hand. 

"I  am  very  well,  thank  you,  senor,"  he  said.  "You  are 
kind  to  ask.  May  I  hope  that  your  own  health  is  good?" 

"Estoy  bien,  gracias,"  he  replied. 

The  stone  paving  where  they  sat  was  so  irregular  that 
a  wedge  of  paper  was  placed  under  one  leg  to  keep  the 
lunch-table  steady.  A  great  rose  tree  that  climbed  one 
side  of  the  house  formed  the  only  protection  between  them 
and  the  sky. 

"In  summer,"  Miss  Cass  remarked,  seeing  that  his  eyes 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       307 

were  turned  upward,  "the  stars  seemed  tangled  in  the  per- 
fume of  roses." 

"Does  your  boy  know  any  English?"  he  asked,  as  the 
child  remained  absolutely  silent. 

"Only  the  Lord's  Prayer,"  was  her  somewhat  astonish- 
ing answer.  "As  a  Spanish  woman  my  knowing  English 
would  be  rather  unusual,  and  Juan,  you  see,  who  talks 
freely  with  the  villagers,  cannot  tell  what  he  does  not 
know.  For  the  most  part  my  neighbours  are  industrious, 
incurious,  kind-hearted  and  very  able  people.  But  gossip 
is  always  a  trait  of  the  human  species,  and  I  try  to  give  it 
no  soil  in  which  to  flourish.  Later,  when  Juan  is  older 
and  can  be  reasoned  with,  I  shall  teach  him  English." 

"You  speak  as  though  you  were  planning  to  remain  here 
for  years?" 

"I  think  my  life  has  given  you  opportunities  for  the  ob- 
servation that  it  is  rather  useless  to  plan.  I  shall  be  quite 
happy,  however,  if  allowed  to  remain  here  unmolested." 

"But  it's  unthinkable.  A  woman  of  your  brain.  .  .  . 
Aren't  you  ever  homesick  for  America?" 

"Let's  not  talk  about  that." 

Serephina  had  entered  bearing  a  plate  of  ham  cooked 
in  sherry.  Their  lunch  consisted  of  fried  tortillas,  orujo 
paste,  a  dish  described  as  "widowed"  rice,  a  bottle  of  val  de 
Penas,  with  juniper  preserve  and  fig  marmalade.  While 
they  ate,  a  full  blown  rose  overhead  in  a  current  of  air 
lodged  a  volley  of  red  petals  upon  them.  Two  of  the  petals 
remained  balanced  in  the  great  architectural  mass  of  Miss 
Cass's  dark  hair. 

Luncheon  over,  Juan  ran  away  to  play  in  the  back  gar- 
den, while  she  took  her  guest  to  show  him  the  prospect 
from  the  garden  wall.  Carefully  tended  borders  of  freesias 
in  bloom  held  back  an  encroachment  of  phloxes,  love-lies 
ableeding  and  stars  of  cyclamen.  He  noticed  the  orange 
tree,  whose  fragrance  he  had  been  aware  of  the  night  be- 
fore, with  its  branches  of  ripening  fruit  and  wax-like  bloom. 
Whither  she  led  him  acacias  overhung  the  wall,  each 
branch  laden  with  a  decoration  of  balls  of  golden  chenille 


3o8       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

that  covered  the  paved  street  beneath  with  a  yellow  shadow 
of  particles  of  bloom  and  fallen  pollen.  The  scent  in  the 
heat  of  early  afternoon  was  passionate,  heady,  like  enter- 
ing the  distillery  of  some  famous  parfumerie. 

Beneath  them  were  lower  levels  of  the  town  and  from 
where  they  stood  they  saw  in  the  dwindling  perspective  tile 
roofs  and  clustered  chimney  pots.  A  swale  of  olives  bound 
them  in  and  still  further  was  the  wild  growth  of  the  vega. 
Straggling  hamlets  were  built  along  burning  white  roads 
that  seared  the  eyes  like  powdered  lime  in  the  sunlight. 
Purple  vapours  rose,  clothing  the  distance  to  great  heights 
beyond  which  were  the  summits  in  perpetual  snow.  The 
effect  of  man  assisting  nature,  but  never  destroying,  im- 
pressed Sefton.  Villages  constructed  at  just  such  angles  to 
add  depth  to  the  precipitous  drop  below,  or  stretching  on 
shelving  uplands  to  break  monotony  without  disturbing 
streams  or  depredating  woods.  The  colour  and  variety 
seemed  the  planning  of  some  master  artist. 

"Did  you  ever  breathe  such  air?"  she  asked  jealously,  as 
he  remained  silent.  "The  Palisades  scarcely  challenge  com- 
parison with  my  view.  Or  do  I  overestimate  our  charms  ?" 

"These  are  castles  in  Spain.  But  New  York  is  New 
York.  Why  this  bitterness  about  home?" 

"I'm  not  bitter.  Only  don't  you  see  I  am  doomed  to 
remain  here  all  the  rest  of  my  life?" 

"Are  you  so  miserable?" 

"No,"  she  said  defiantly,  "I'm  not  miserable.  But  how 
I  despise  the  sanctimonious,  hypocritical  point  of  view  at 
home  that  makes  it  impossible  for  me  ever  to  go  back.  I 
hadn't  even  thought  of  that  until  seeing  you  to-day.  You 
are  making  me  remember  all  the  things  I  had  schooled  my- 
self to  forget.  I  thought  I'd  been  successful." 

"But  you're  not?" 

He  saw  the  quiver  in  her  throat.  It  came  and  went  as 
though  she  were  drinking  rapidly.  He  thought  at  that  mo- 
ment he  would  give  anything  in  the  world  to  put  his  lips 
there  to  that  spot. 

She  calmed  herself,  though  her  eyes  still  glistened. 


309 

"Tell  me  about  mother  and  Annis.  Have  you  seen  them? 
How  does  mother  look  ?  And  how  is  poor  Annis  .  .  .  ?" 

That  moment  had  brought  about  the  complete  displace- 
ment of  all  pretenses.  She  listened  painfully  to  his  re- 
cital of  encountering  Mrs.  Cass  at  the  opera,  absorbing  each 
word  as  he  described  his  visit  to  East  Eightieth  Street. 
He  told  of  her  mother's  appearance  as  he  had  seen  her, 
truthfully,  inexorably;  her  black  dress,  her  inimical  manner. 
When  he  had  finished  she  asked  him  abruptly  to  leave. 

"I  must  think,"  she  said.  "I  can't  see  you  any  more 
to-day." 

He  went  away  humbly,  yet  jubilant.  She  had  refused 
to  see  him  any  more  for  the  present,  which  he  construed 
to  mean  that  he  might  come  the  following  day.  Yet  he 
counselled  reserve  and  attempted  to  ignore  her  for  a  couple 
of  days,  spending  the  interval  in  investigating  the  village 
and  the  old  cemetery.  He  found  there  the  dead  were 
shelved  in  walls  like  bales  of  merchandise  for  periods  of 
years,  and  deciphered  dates  that  should  have  made  him 
feel  callow  and  unsubstantial.  All  that  it  really  achieved 
was  to  make  him  realise  just  how  bitter  the  punishment 
was  which  he  had  set  for  himself. 

Returning  three  days  later  he  found  her  seated  in  the 
garden  with  some  embroidery  stretched  on  a  drum  which 
she  had  laid  aside  since  the  light  had  begun  to  fail.  The 
air  had  grown  cooler  and  she  had  drawn  a  Manila  shawl 
about  her  shoulders.  She  seemed  resolutely  determined  not 
to  recall  their  moments  of  intimacy  since  no  reference  was 
made  to  home  or  any  previous  state.  He  was  a  tripper 
and  she  was  a  resident  of  San  Anselmo.  Serephina  placed 
a  lamp  in  the  window  and  the  light  fell  athwart  the  flag- 
ging where  they  were  seated,  Miss  'Cass  with  Juan  at  her 
side.  Sefton  recrossed  his  legs  and  leaned  back  in  the 
deep  garden  chair,  and  decided  to  make  the  plunge. 

"I  want  to  talk  about  yourself  and,  unless  you're  unwill- 
ing, your  outlook  on  the  future.  .  .  ." 

She  gave  a  slight,  embittered  laugh. 

"My  future  is  a  very  uncertain  matter.    I  am  likely  not 


3io       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

to  have  any  at  all,  or  else  an  altogether  too  exuberant  one. 
I  am  destined  to  live  in  rat-holes  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"How  can  you  stand  it?" 

She  sat  with  averted  eyes  for  several  minutes  watching 
the  brooding  shadows  of  her  garden.  She  remained  irre- 
sponsive while  she  appeared  to  struggle  with  a  strong  dis- 
inclination to  speak.  Then  with  a  sudden  uprush  of  feel- 
ing she  stiffened  to  the  necessity  of  some  explanation. 

"Of  course  I  know  I  can  trust  you,"  she  said.  "When 
you  leave  you  won't  mention  having  seen  me." 

"Naturally." 

"I  can  stand  it  because  I  must.  I  couldn't  have  done  it 
once.  Now  I  am  able  to  face  whatever  confronts  me. 
I've  lived  so  much  alone  I  think  I've  given  more  time  to 
metaphysics  than  most  people.  Many  of  the  hours  at  the 
convent  available  for  prayer  I  spent  in  thought.  They 
weren't  wasted,  for  I've  devised  for  my  own  needs  a  sort 
of  quasi-religious  philosophy.  There  was  a  time  when  I 
was  not  a  very  highly  sensitized  instrument.  But  I've  lost 
whatever  vanity  I  had  and  all  thought  of  my  own  impor- 
tance. As  an  ego  I  have  just  enough  impulse  to  keep  on 
living." 

She  put  her  arm  protectingly  around  the  little  boy  seated 
at  her  side.  The  child  had  been  quite  unnaturally  quiet. 
He  hadn't  spoken  or  squirmed.  Sefton  had  paid  little  at- 
tion  to  Juan,  feeling  the  less  he  was  reminded  of  the  boy's 
existence  the  less  his  fastidiousness  would  be  offended. 
He  wanted  to  forget  what  had  taken  place,  not  to  have  it 
recalled  by  the  child's  well-knit  frame,  the  developed  shoul- 
ders and  chest  of  his  splendid  little  body.  He  was  dark, 
with  thick,  rebellious  hair,  alert  eyes  and  a  firm  mouth 
and  jaw.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  rather  absurd  self- 
reliance  in  one  so  young,  there  was  something  wistful 
about  the  little  fellow.  He  responded  to  his  mother's  touch 
with  a  double  willingness,  because  she  was  both  father  and 
mother  to  him,  his  great  playfellow  and  companion,  his 
chief  contact  with  life. 

"My  experience  has  taught  me  this,"  she  resumed,  "what 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       311 

is  wrong  for  one  is  not  necessarily  wrong  for  another. 
There  is  no  hard  and  fast  law  that  can  be  applied  to  all. 
I  know  this  would  seem  to  be  a  sinner's  code  of  ethics,  and 
of  course  it  is.  But  this  I  know.  .  .  ." 

And  as  she  spoke  her  eyes  were  vitalized  by  the  express- 
ing in  words  of  thoughts  that  had  often  come  to  her  but 
remained  dormant  because  of  no  listener.  "The  important 
thing  in  life  is  not  that  one  sins,  but  the  effect  that  one's 
sin  has  upon  one.  Sin  isn't  sin  unless  the  results  are  sin- 
ful. What  I  have  done  and  decried  has  made  of  me  a  ... 
woman.  I  wasn't  even  a  human  being  before." 

Sefton  felt  himself  curiously  stirred  by  her  words.  Her 
life  seemed  to  have  woven  itself  like  some  strangely 
wrought  pattern  into  a  great  theme  in  music.  Out  of  her 
wrong-doing  she  had  made  for  herself  a  working  code. 
Sin  had  brought  her  face  to  face  with  this  stimulus,  this 
reconstruction  of  evil  into  good.  The  important  thing  in 
life  is  not  that  one  sins,  but  the  effect  that  one's  sin  has 
upon  one.  It  was  a  world  message.  Her  entire  existence 
seemed  to  him  a  translation  of  this  tenet. 

"I  was  absurdly  ignorant  considering  my  age  and  experi- 
ence. Emotionally,  I  was  underfed.  I  had  felt  nothing. 
I  was  spoiled,  indulged,  immature.  I  disregarded  my 
mother,  my  family,  my  friends,  and  I  contrived  to  shirk 
every  responsibility.  To-day  there  is  no  one  to  do  any- 
thing for  me,  and  I  am  responsible,  not  only  for  myself, 
but  another.  Every  word  I  speak,  every  step  I  take  endan- 
gers the  future  liberty  of  someone  else.  You  see  in  this 
little  man  beside  me  my  one  worthy  feature.  .  .  .  He's 
kept  me  from  under  the  wheels  of  the  train.  .  .  .  He's 
kept  me  from  throwing  myself  into  the  sea.  .  .  .  It's  my 
wrong-doing  that  has  given  me  all  the  courage  I  possess, 
and  all  the  charity  .  .  .  and  I  believe  all  the  poetry,  too. 
And  so,  if  you  ask  me  if  I  am  ashamed  of  my  past,  I  can 
only  tell  you  that  I  am  very  proud  of  it.  For  had  it  not 
been  for  that  I  think  I  might  have  been  a  deliberately ^  evil 
woman,  as  I  was  then  in  the  making  .  .  .  and  as  it  is,  I 
believe  I  am  a  reasonably  good  one.  .  .  ." 


312       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

"Of  course  you're  good,"  he  said  heatedly.  "Your  sin 
.—since  you  persist  in  the  old  vocabulary  ...  is  that  you 
loved  an  unworthy  man  too  much — Surely  I  am  enough  of 
an  American  to  know  that  the  woman  who  loves  too  much 
is  more  admirable  than  the  woman  who  does  not  love 
enough.  Too  many  men  have  been  the  victims  of  the  latter 
kind  of  women.  And  even  her  greatest  admirers  will  admit 
that  loving  is  not  our  countrywoman's  strongest  point." 

He  watched  her,  silent,  gestureless,  the  repose  and  per- 
fect poise  of  her  bearing  holding  him.  Then  he  went  on : 

"Small  feeling,  I  suppose,  enters  all  the  virtues.  And  a 
woman  who  retains  her  chastity  may  be  equally  compounded 
of  avarice  and  lack  of  imagination.  At  least  the  person 
who  is  always  considering  the  costs  gradually  loses  the  cur- 
rency of  payment.  Your  'sin/  as  you  call  it,  isn't  apparent  to 
me,  because  I'm  in  love  with  you  and  always  shall  be." 

Her  head  was  thrust  back  against  the  wall.  She  was 
watching  the  stars  through  the  rose  trellis. 

"You  intend  to  be  sincere,"  she  said  judicially  as  though 
attempting  to  weigh  each  word,  "but  you're  not.  You 
think  your  interest  in  me  is  permanent.  It  isn't.  You're 
a  novelist,  subtle,  imaginative,  looking  for  a  new  type.  To 
you  I'm  a  subject,  a  wayward,  rather  impressionistic  study. 
With  me  for  a  lay  figure  I  don't  doubt  you  could  develop 
something  very  interesting  ...  it  wouldn't  be  me,  but  it 
would  be  eminently  readable.  I  think  you  will  admit  that 
is  all  that  you  came  for,  to  refresh  your  impression  of  me 
so  that  you  can  continue  work." 

He  felt  himself  flush  in  the  darkness.  The  thought  of 
making  use  of  her  misfortune  had  been  discarded  months 
since,  and  yet  there  had  been  a  time  when  it  was  the  pro- 
pelling motive  that  had  goaded  him  into  search.  He  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  looking  down  at  his  well-made  boots. 

"I  am  asking  you  to  be  my  wife,"  he  said  quietly. 

"But  I  don't  love  you." 

"Of  course  I  know  that,  but  as  my  wife  you  will  no 
longer  be  penalized  for  past  heresies.  You  can  return  to 
America  .  .  free.  I  will  look  after  the  little  man.  I'm 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       313 

not  poor.  I  have  a  position  of  a  kind,  and  I'll  exact  noth- 
ing from  you  that  you  don't  give  willingly.  More  than 
that,  I  feel  tremendous  potentialities  within  me.  I  feel 
I'm  going  to  do  good  work,  great  work.  I  don't  say  this 
crassly,  but  as  the  wife  of  a  famous  novelist,  should  I  be- 
come one,  your  place  will  be  secure.  I  am  telling  you  this, 
because  there  is  no  one  else  to  say  it  for  me.  It  isn't  cow- 
ardice that's  keeping  you  here,  but  the  pride  of  your  family. 
Well — this  would  put  an  end  to  all  the  furtiveness  I  hate.  .  . 
What  do  you  say?" 

"My  friend  ...  I  will  never  make  use  of  you  or  any 
other  man  for  a  selfish  purpose.  If  I  ever  marry  it  will  be 
for  the  simple  pleasure  of  being  my  husband's  wife.  .  .  . 
No  other  question  will  enter  into  the  relation." 

She  sat  with  her  shawl  drawn  about  Juan.  Looking 
down  upon  the  tired  child  she  noticed  he  had  fallen  asleep. 
She  rose,  lifting  him  in  her  arms  without  waking  him. 

"I  must  go  in,"  she  said.    "Juan  is  very  tired." 

"Helena  ...  I  shall  never  leave  San  Anselmo  until  you 
marry  me." 

He  stood  close  beside  her,  and  at  his  words  she  became 
instantly  remote,  rigid,  impossible  to  appeal  to.  He 
watched  the  active  pupils  of  her  eyes,  clear,  unwavering, 
that,  as  they  glittered  in  her  warmly  tinted  face,  seemed 
compounded  of  both  colour  and  light. 

"Mr.  Sefton,"  she  said  mockingly,  "I  think  your  discre- 
tion as  a  novelist  won't  permit  you^to  carry  any  situation 
too  far.  Good  night." 

Days  followed  this  encounter  before  he  returned  to 
her.  Several  times  he  passed  Serephina  in  the  street  so 
that  he  knew  her  mistress  was  still  apprised  of  his  where- 
abouts. Since  it  was  patent  to  her  that  he  was  remaining 
on  her  account,  it  was  childish  in  him  to  forego  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  her.  Before  the  week  was  up  he  returned  at  her 
dinner  hour.  Prandial  preparations  were  going  forward  in 
which  an  appetite  perpetually  sharpened  became  acute  as  he 
sniffed  the  delights  of  Serephina's  kitchen.  He  was  asked 
to  remain  and  accepted  with  scant  urging.  A  week  of  un- 


314       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

usual  warmth  had  brought  out  all  the  roses  of  the  trellis  and 
the  flagging  beneath  was  spattered  with  their  blood- red  petals. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  their  meal  when  they  heard 
suddenly  the  sound  of  a  nearby  guitar.  An  old  man,  a 
wandering  guitarrero,  was  standing  at  the  wicket-gate.  His 
eyes  danced  in  his  withered  face,  as  the  rhythm,  which  is 
the  soul  of  the  Spaniard,  maintained  its  lilt  in  emphasised 
time.  For  a  moment  they  were  amazed  that  so  much  music 
could  be  urged  from  his  battered  instrument.  Then  Miss 
Cass  called  Serephina  and  gave  instructions  that  the  gui- 
tarrero  should  be  fed. 

"One  rarely  sees  one  of  these  players  in  this  part  of 
Spain.  The  man  has  probably  come  on  foot  from  the  south." 

He  was  urged  to  enter  the  garden  and  he  removed  his 
tattered  hat  with  a  graceful  gesture  and  drew  up  his  thin 
bent  body  in  an  attitude  of  respectful  attention.  He  had 
plucked  a  red  rose,  which  he  placed  behind  his  ear. 

"Beautiful  lady,"  he  said,  "I  play  only  for  my  own  en- 
joyment and  to  give  pleasure.  Since  I  see  you  and  the 
caballero  are  occupied  I  will  not  discommode  you  further." 

The  old  man  made  as  if  to  leave,  when  Miss  Cass  spoke : 

"As  a  stranger  in  the  village  will  you  not  do  me  the 
honour  to  accept  my  hospitality?  And  after  you  have 
dined  we  should  like  you  to  play  if  it  pleases  you." 

The  old  man  smiled.  The  form  of  her  courtesy  was 
not  to  be  withstood. 

"Since  it  is  your  wish,"  he  replied,  "I  cannot  refuse." 

Serephina  led  him  to  the  kitchen  and  he  followed,  drag- 
ging his  feet,  the  hemp  soles  of  his  sandals  silent  on  the 
flagging.  Later  when  Serephina  returned  to  serve  wine 
and  a  plate  of  honey  cakes  she  rolled  her  eyes  to  heaven 
and  gave  a  violent  pantomime  of  the  stranger's  appetite. 

Dinner  over,  Sefton  lit  his  cigarette  in  the  dusk  and  they 
remained  silent  scenting  the  acacia  and  watching  the  after- 
glow. They  were  each  roused  from  their  individual  medi- 
tations presently  when,  the  old  man's  hunger  having  been 
appeased,  the  sound  of  the  guitar  was  renewed.  Serephina 
had  lighted  the  lamps  in  the  sitting-room  and  they  entered, 
Sefton  for  the  first  time. 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       315 

He  noticed  the  bookcase  well  stocked  with  the  yellow 
backs  of  French  and  Spanish  literature,  the  few  pictures 
on  the  wall,  the  vases  of  glowing  glaze  with  their  apportion- 
ment of  garden  flowers.  Helena  seated  herself  on  a  wide 
sofa  spread  with  a  Manila  shawl  of  vivid  colours,  and  he 
threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair  by  the  fireplace. 

The  guitarrero  was  led  within ;  unabashed  he  selected  the 
seat  nearest  the  door,  and,  after  bowing  respectfully  to  each, 
began  to  play.  Having  dispatched  the  meal  of  a  gastro- 
nome, the  old  man  plucked  the  strings  with  increased  spirit, 
while  the  oscillations  of  his  head  kept  time  unconsciously. 
He  played  an  old  Moorish  plaint,  haunting,  occasionally  stri- 
dent, with  a  monotonous  wailing  refrain.  This  wate  followed 
by  a  vigorous  strumming,  African  in  its  intensity,  suggest- 
ing the  tom-toms  of  Algeria,  all  the  movement  and  pan- 
tomime of  the  Arabs  at  some  native  celebration. 

Sefton  let  his  cigarette  go  out. 

"If  New  York  could  hear  such  music,"  he  ejaculated, 
leaving  the  unfinished  sentence  to  express  the  violence  of 
its  acclaim. 

She  smiled  cynically. 

"It  can't  be  heard  anywhere  but  in  Spain,"  she  said. 
"This  music  is  centuries  old.  It  is  not  written  even  in 
manuscript ;  it  cannot  be  bought.  It  has  been  handed  down, 
an  inheritance,  among  musicians,  travelling  players  and  the 
like.  It  is  dying  out  even  now.  Only  the  ear  of  a  com- 
poser can  record  it.  These  are  just  fragments,  priceless 
records  of  a  civilisation  lost.  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  interrupt  again,  as  the  guitarrero  played  a 
Sevillana  Miss  Cass  had  evidently  heard  before.  She  kept 
time,  beating  the  floor  with  the  heel  of  her  slipper,  while 
the  old  man's  eyes  sparkled  and  he  increased  its  madness. 
As  he  broke  into  a  different  air,  she  was  suddenly  on  her 
feet.  She  tore  the  Manila  shawl  from  the  sofa,  hurled  it 
about  her  in  folds  a  la  Maja,  detached  a  carnation  from  a 
vase  and  fastened  it  in  her  hair.  Then  she  opened  the 
drawer  of  a  table  and  removed  a  pair  of  castanets  and  ad- 
justed them  to  her  fingers.  For  a  moment  she  stood  wait- 


3i6       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

ing  while  the  thrill  of  the  music,  like  the  pumping  of  a 
heart,  continued  unbroken.  Then  she  sped  across  the  tiled 
floor  of  her  room,  her  body  half  upright,  but  stooping  so 
that  her  feet  were  concealed  and  the  hem  of  her  dress 
touched  the  floor.  Wrapped  in  her  shawl  of  angry  chro- 
matic colours,  its  Chinese  yellow  embroidered  with  mam- 
moth roses  with  their  green  leaves,  she  was  like  some  tropi- 
cal flower,  a  red  tanagra  that  had  flown  through  the  room. 
Until  that  moment  Sefton  had  doubted  the  wiseness  of 
her  experiment.  He  possessed  the  cautiousness  of  one 
afraid  of  failure  and  he  realised  that  the  dances  of  Spain 
should  not  be  attempted  by  the  well-meaning  amateur.  It 
required  years  if  not  generations  of  proficiency  to  obtain 
the  ease  and  casual  results  of  the  experienced  native.  He 
realised  now  that  during  her  long  residence  she  had  learnt 
them  carefully,  accurately,  with  the  musical  sense  of  one 
who  loved  them  and  the  mimicry  of  one  born  an  actress. 
She  seemed  motionless  in  her  second  pose,  her  head  up, 
her  eyes  half-veiled  by  drooping  lids,  her  hands  behind  her 
back  snapping  out  the  strange  involuted  rhythm  that  never 
escaped  her.  The  Spaniard,  he  thought,  was  never  so  in- 
stinct with  life,  so  suggestive  of  violence,  as  when  seem- 
ingly static,  the  dancer  showing  throughout  her  person  the 
tattoo  of  time,  in  eyes,  in  castanets,  in  the  muscles  of  the 
back  and  torso,  and  the  composed  and  restless  feet.  Her 
movements  as  she  glided  round  the  room  were  panther- 
like;  the  sharp  throwing-up  of  the  head  never  endangered 
the  flower,  nor  did  the  folds  of  her  shawl  become  dis- 
arranged. 

There  were  cries  from  the  guitarrero. 

"Muy  bien  .   .   .  ole,  .  .  .  ole,  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  would  not  suffer  his  enjoyment  to  end,  he 
had  struck  into  another  dance,  a  farruca,  and  in  a  moment 
she  had  replied  to  the  challenge,  her  arms  in  place.  This 
was  dancing  of  a  more  vigorous  if  not  a  more  difficult 
order.  Between  stamping  her  heels  on  the  floor,  which 
seemed  to  echo  the  staccato  of  her  castanets,  were  rapid 
turns  of  these  arabesques  in  which  her  skirt  under  the 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS        317 

drapery  of  her  shawl  spread  out  like  a  drooping  flower. 
In  spite  of  dizzy  revolving  only  her  feet  and  ankles  were 
uncovered  while  she  executed  the  amazing  movements,  in 
which  each  vertebrae  of  her  neck  seemed  softened  until  her 
body  was  as  flexible  as  the  stem  of  a  flame-coloured  tulip. 
Throughout  the  performance  the  mask  of  her  face  re- 
mained immobile,  the  entire  dance  entrechat  and  all 
achieved  as  by  some  important  ritualist  at  a  solemn  fiesta. 

Sefton  had  watched  her  with  increasing  excitement 
through  these  convolutions  as  he  saw  the  heavy  coil  of  her 
hair  loosening.  It  needed  only  one  more  rapid  turn  with 
her  head  thrown  back  and  as  she  performed  that  figure 
there  was  a  shower  of  pins  on  the  floor  and  the  great 
length  of  dark  hair  shook  itself  free  and  fell  to  her  knees. 
He  had  seen  such  wealth  of  hair  before  in  Spain,  but  never 
on  one  of  his  own  countrywomen.  Serephina  entered,  col- 
lected the  pins,  and  Miss  Cass  without  loss  of  countenance 
swiftly  wound  her  hair  up  and  secured  it  before  a  hand- 
mirror  had  been  brought.  Then  she  cast  the  Manila  shawl 
aside  and  went  out  into  the  garden.  Sefton  followed. 

"I  don't  know  what  possessed  me  to  be  so  foolish  this 
evening,"  she  said  as  she  stood  under  the  acacias,  leaning 
against  the  wall.  "I  must  apologise." 

The  scent  of  the  garden  in  the  night  air  was  strong 
though  cool.  Sefton  stood  close  beside  her,  looking  into 
the  shadowed  oval  of  her  face.  "I  know  what  possessed 
you,"  he  said  thickly.  "It  was  the  devil.  You  were  in  a 
devilish  mood.  That's  what  you  wanted  to  arouse  and 
you've  done  it." 

He  took  her  face  in  his  hands  and  holding  it  to  him 
kissed  her,  raining  upon  her  lips  the  determined  kisses  of  a 
man  who  had  made  up  his  mind.  She  struggled  to  be  free, 
but  her  arms  were  pinioned  whilst  he  continued  to  slake 
his  thirst  of  her.  At  length  managing  to  free  one  arm  sht 
fought  her  way  out  of  his  embrace.  Then  turning  she 
struck  him  full  on  the  mouth  with  the  palm  of  her  hand. 
With  sobbing  breath  she  ran  into  the  house  and  closed  the 
door.  A  moment  later  he  heard  the  lock  pushed  down. 


3i8       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

All  this  time  the  music  had  continued  its  maddening  gaiety 
as  though  turning  into  rhythm  his  own  excited  heart  beats. 
Now  it  ceased  abruptly  as  though  in  answer  to  an  order. 

He  remained  alone  in  the  garden  for  several  minutes  and 
then  disconsolately  let  himself  into  the  street.  The  disk  of 
the  moon  had  begun  to  soar  into  the  sky  above  the  rim  of 
the  mountains.  It  painted  the  village  with  an  artificial 
phosphorescent  glamour.  Sefton  walked,  not  noticing 
where  he  went,  only  wishing  to  have  time  to  think.  But 
his  thoughts  far  outstripped  his  steps.  Much  later  he 
returned  to  the  fonda,  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  room,  un- 
dressed and  went  to  bed. 

But  sleep  did  not  overtake  him.  His  bed  was  placed  in 
a  curtained  alcove,  and  in  the  stuffiness  of  its  enclosure  his 
restlessness  became  unendurable.  He  rose,  threw  on  a 
dressing-gown,  and  thrusting  his  bare  feet  into  slippers 
walked  to  the  open  window.  Cradling  a  cigarette  in  his 
hands  he  struck  a  match  and  obtained  a  light.  .  .  .  The  air 
that  poured  into  his  room  was  cold  with  an  edge  to  it, 
invigorating,  sleep-provoking,  and  yet  each  moment  his 
thoughts  became  more  dominant.  The  moon  now  flooded 
the  expanse  below  him  with  a  brilliance  that  was  tropic. 
The  sinuosities  of  the  narrow  paved  streets  seemed  to  run 
molten  silver  and  the  lime-washed  walls  not  in  shadow  were 
a  harsh  white.  The  walled-in  declivities  of  the  mountain- 
side beyond  were  planted  in  almond  orchards  in  bloom  and 
the  branches  of  white  blossom  were  ghostly  in  the  moon- 
light. The  grass  beneath  was  spread  with  fallen  petals  like 
a  spectral  snow-storm. 

As  the  cold  Spanish  night  pierced  his  dressing-gown, 
Sefton  did  not  move.  The  silver  and  whiteness  of  the 
dropping  perspective  as  he  watched  seemed  to  intensify  its 
impression  of  loveliness,  to  deepen  its  hold  upon  his  im- 
agination. In  a  moment  he  heard  the  staff  of  the  sereno 
striking  the  pavements  as  he  made  his  way  through  the 
streets,  lantern  in  hand,  calling  out  the  hour  and  continuing 
an  astronomical  dissertation  while  the  town  slept.  And 
mildly  at  a  distance,  forming  a  faint  legato,  came  the  sup- 


SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS       319 

pressed  voice  of  the  stream  racing  under  the  old  Arab 
bridge.  The  romance  of  San  Anselmo.  .  .  .  The  simple 
pastoral  beauty  of  its  uplands.  .  .  .  The  village,  rectilinear, 
overhanging,  with  its  glowing  shadows.  .  .  . 

Chilled,  but  unwilling  to  leave  the  window,  he  realised 
there  would  never  be  a  moon  that  would  not  suggest  failure 
to  him.  He  would  never  inhale  the  scent  of  acacia  or 
orange  blossoms  without  thinking  of  this  bitterest  hour  of 
his  life.  He  acknowledged  his  defeat  and  its  humiliation. 
He  hadn't  expected  Helena  to  remember  him.  But  he  had 
encouraged  that  unfailing  support  that  if  alive,  alone  and 
in  hiding,  she  would  accept  his  protection.  It  was  only  one 
more  proof  of  her  independence,  if  proof  were  needed,  that 
she  remained  a  rebel  to  the  last.  She  did  not  love  him  and 
she  disdained  to  put  him  to  any  use.  She  despised  him 
now.  More  than  that,  she  would  never  trust  him  again 
.  .  .  perhaps  she  would  not  even  see  him.  At  present  he 
was  catalogued  as  one  with  Buel.  .  .  .  Yet  even  in  his 
bitterness  he  admired  her  act. 

He  returned  to  bed  with  his  mind  made  up.  He  would 
leave  San  Anselmo  that  day.  He  would  be  driven  in  the 
afternoon  to  Lila,  sleep  there  that  night  and  the  next  morn- 
ing take  the  train  returning  to  France.  He  would  spend  a 
week  in  Paris,  and  after  that — he  recoiled  from  the  void 
which  stretched  before  him.  He  realised  in  that  moment 
just  what  he  had  lost — nothing  mattered  now. 

His  plans  next  day  were  not  effected  as  summarily  as  he 
had  expected.  It  required  several  hours  to  find  a  tarcmta 
willing  to  take  him  to  Lila  that  day.  By  five  o'clock,  how- 
ever, his  kit  was  packed  and  placed  behind  them  and  he 
was  sharing  the  seat  beside  the  driver.  The  little  burro  was 
directed  toward  the  gate  of  the  village,  where  he  knew  he 
could  not  go  without  saying  good-bye  to  Helena.  He  was 
leaving  forever,  and  it  was  conceivable  that  he  might  per- 
form some  last  service  for  her.  Reaching  her  house  he 
stopped  the  vehicle  at  the  corner  and  strode  to  the  wicket- 
gate.  He  rang  the  garden  bell  vigourously  and  waited.  He 
was  wearing  a  cap  and  his  overcoat  was  carried  over  his 


320       SHE  WHO  WAS  HELENA  CASS 

arm.  Perhaps  if  she  realised  he  was  going  away  not  to 
return  she  might  consent  to  see  him.  In  any  case  he  knew 
he  would  not  leave  until  she  did.  If  necessary  he  would 
force  his  entrance.  At  length  Serephina  appeared. 

"Will  you  tell  Dona  Rosita  that  the  foreign  gentleman  is 
leaving  Spain  to-night  and  ask  if  she  will  see  him?" 

Serephina  went  within  and  he  remained  in  the  sweet- 
smelling  garden.  He  looked  at  his  watch  several  times. 
He  lit  a  cigarette  to  hide  his  anxiety.  Minutes  passed 
without  incident.  Then  she  came  out  from  the  house  and 
stood  under  the  trellis.  She  was  wearing  a  white  dress, 
one  he  had  never  seen  before.  He  wondered  if  she  had 
not  kept  him  waiting  in  order  to  change.  She  glanced  at 
his  overcoat. 

"Serephina  says  you're  going  away." 

"Yes,  this  is  good-bye.  I  came  to  ask  if  you  would  care 
to  send  any  message  to  your  mother  or  sister  ...  or  if 
I  could  take  them  anything  you  would  not  care  to  risk  by 
post.  .  .  .  You  can  trust  me,  really." 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  in 
hers  and  yet  he  saw  that  her  breathing  was  hurried,  in  gusts. 

"Isn't  this  a  sudden  decision  ?" 

"Not  very.  I  made  up  my  mind  last  night.  I  knew 
there  was  no  need  of  my  remaining.  .  .  .  Even  a  poor 
player  knows  when  he's  lost.  But  I  shall  have  to  hurry. 
My  carretero  is  waiting  at  the  corner." 

"Don't  go,"  she  pleaded.    "Please  don't  go,  Jay." 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  his  coat  sleeve  as  though  to 
forcibly  detain  him. 

That  was  enough.  He  threw  down  his  coat  on  the  grass. 
His  arms  were  around  her  and  she  no  longer  fought,  though 
he  could  feel  the  tumult  of  her  heart  against  his  side.  She 
was  shivering.  ...  It  seemed  to  him  only  a  minute  in 
which  the  dusk  fell  between  them  like  a  wounded  bird.  He 
saw  the  garden  had  grown  dark,  and  they  were  two  shadows 
alone,  before  that  exquisite  panorama  of  unreality,  and 
above  them  on  the  hilltop  were  the  ruins  of  a  castle  in 
Spain. 

THE  END 


A     000120004 


